Faithful
by CharlotteBlackwood
Summary: Sansa changes her mind and leaves King's Landing with Sandor. They agree to play man and wife, but what happens when she forgets herself? SanxSan
1. Chapter 1

Prologue~ Shelter

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_

_Save our sons from war, we pray,_

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_

_Let them know a better day._

_Gentle Mother, strength of women,_

_Help our daughters through this fray,_

_Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_

_Teach us all a kinder way._

Sansa didn't know why she'd done it. She didn't know what made her stand up and decide to live. Perhaps it had something to do with the cloak. He had thrown his cloak at her twice now, once to cover her naked body, and once the night before last, to say goodbye. It was then, huddled under the blood stained white cloak that she'd realized she didn't want to say goodbye to him, she didn't want to see him go.

Moments after that she'd rushed down the corridor as fast as her legs could carry her and she called out to him, using his true name for the first time ever.

"Sandor!" she had cried, stretching her arm and hand out to him. He'd turned, hand on the pommel of his sword, and tears still slowly rolling down his blood-covered cheeks. Without thinking, she'd flung herself at him and he'd caught her.

"We have to hurry," he'd said, not asking about her change of heart. And they had. He'd half-carried, half-dragged her through the castle, pushing her behind him whenever he sensed danger ahead of them. He had cut through countless people, and all the while Sansa had buried her face in her hands or in his chest so she would not see, or would not be seen.

They had reached the stables, but they were already ablaze. Most of the horses had escaped, but a few were still tethered. Stranger was waiting for them, outside of the stables, as proud and angry as ever. Sandor had looked back and forth from the burning stables to Sansa, and had growled. She knew she needed a horse, but he was loath to go in for one. Bracing herself, Sansa rushed in before he could stop her and she quickly began un-tethering the trapped horses. The flames licked at her hands and face and neck, but she didn't stop until she reached the final horse. She took the reins and ran from the blaze.

"Are you mad, girl? You could have been hurt!" Sandor had bellowed at her, catapulting her atop the horse with his brute strength. He mounted Stranger and the two fled, through the flames, through the battle, through the dying, and through the gates.

That had been two nights ago.

They had yet to stop for any long period for rest, and Sansa was beginning to think that the Hound didn't need sleep. She did though. And the horses did. Her poor mare was beginning to stumble, and had slowed substantially since their first night of riding. Sansa was so tired and weak she'd taken to leaning on the mare's neck for fear of falling from the saddle.

She must have fallen asleep despite the cold and being in the saddle, because the next thing she knew, Sansa was being lifted off of the horse by large, warm hands that wrapped around her waist. She looked down to see Sandor.

"We've stopped," she said softly, stretching with her arms over her head.

"We've come far enough to escape all of the fighting, and all of the stragglers. It is time to rest now, little bird." he answered, gently placing her back on her feet on the ground. She looked around and saw they were in a very secluded wooded area, with no inn in sight.

"But…there's no inn here." she said, confused. Sandor barked a laugh as he tethered the horses and began to unsaddle them.

"No, girl, there's no inn. We need to stay to the forest for a while, just until we've gotten far enough North." he said, carefully rubbing Stranger down and inspecting his hooves and legs. Sansa stood with her hands clasped in front of her waist, watching everything he did.

"What are we going to do for shelter, and food?" she asked, looking up at the maddening sky. "It looks like rain…"

"Can you do this, girl? Tend your mount, I mean? Were you taught that along with your needle-work and tender words?" Sansa blushed, but nodded. "Good. You see to her then, and I'll see to the shelter." he grumbled, stalking off through the forest to gather up large sticks and branches.

Sansa began to rub down her mare, and for the first time she noticed what a lovely horse she was. Her coat was the color of wheat, and she had soft brown eyes that were weary, but beautiful. She gently massaged the swollen joints of the mare's legs and decided she would call her Maiden. If the Hound could travel with one of the gods, then so could she. Sansa gently brushed Maiden's mane and tail out with her fingers and then checked her hooves, not really knowing what to look for.

When she felt she had sufficiently cared for the horse, she turned to study what Sandor was doing. He had made what looked like a large pile of leaves, and Sansa was dreading to see how it was to shelter them. She reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and gasped, making Sandor turn to her with his hand on his sword.

"What? What is it?" he asked, hurrying to her in a protective stance.

"My _hair_! It's…_burnt_." she said miserably, pulling a mass of burned tendrils off of her head. Sandor looked at her with what she thought was pity, and he sighed, pulling out his dagger—the one he had held to her throat two nights before.

"Come, I'll trim it for you. It will make you less recognizable," he said as means to comfort her. She stood before him with her back to him and he began to gently slice through her gorgeous red locks. As she felt the weight coming off her head, she began to cry. Before she came to King's Landing—what felt like a hundred years ago—her mother used to brush her hair daily, telling her how it was like spun gold reflecting fire. Now, all those beautiful locks were being shorn from her head.

"It's nothing fancy, but it'll do." Sandor said awkwardly. Sansa reached up to run her hands over the new cut, and found that her once-long locks now ended by her chin. She could no longer smell the burnt hair, and was thankful for that, but found the thought of no longer having long, shinning hair rather disheartening. She let a sob escape as Sandor handed her the clippings of her hair.

"It's just hair, girl. It'll grow back," he said, not unkindly. He let his hands rest on her shoulders as he looked down into her teary blue eyes and he bent to meet her height.

"Thank you," Sansa whispered, dropping her head.

"It's just a haircut, little bird, and not a bad one at that."

"No. For rescuing me." she said softly. One moment they were at arms' length, and the next Sansa had crushed herself against Sandor's chest, wrapping her arms around him tightly. He was so broad, and muscled like a bull, that she could barely touch her fingers together. Sandor inhaled sharply, as though he'd been injured, but after a few moments he wrapped his arms around Sansa.

"Come little bird, the rain will start soon." he muttered against the top of her head. For a moment, Sansa felt his lips linger on her newly shortened hair, and then his entire body was gone. As Sandor set about finishing their pile of leaves, which he called a debris shelter, Sansa managed to pull the saddle blankets over the saddles so they wouldn't get wet.

"How does this work…exactly?" Sansa asked, looking at their debris shelter.

"We crawl inside and we sleep. It'll be a bit tight, but we'll stay dry and warm enough not to need a fire. Once we have slept, I can do some hunting, but for now let's get some rest." Sandor crawled in first, and then Sansa managed to climb inside after him. There was hardly enough room for both of them, but as the rain started, Sansa was amazed to find that there were no leaks.

"Get some sleep, little bird." Sandor said tiredly, his eyes already closed. Sansa looked at him hesitantly, but scooted closer to him and laid her head on his chest. Sandor looked down, surprised, but tucked her into the crook of his arm and held her tightly.

"Goodnight, Sandor." she whispered to him.

He grunted in response.


	2. Decisions

Chapter 1~ Wren

Sandor woke with the sun and for a moment he didn't remember where he was. He looked down to see the little bird's head on his chest, her arm thrown over his stomach and a leg hiked over his own. She seemed comfortable, content even.

"Wake up, Little Bird. We need to be on our way." he said, gently shaking her from her slumber. Sansa rolled over and stretched, yawning. She opened her eyes and looked up at Sandor. For a moment, he could see the confusion swim through her eyes, then a pretty blush painted her cheeks and she gave him a tight smile.

"I trust you slept well last night, my…" she abruptly stopped and looked at him awkwardly. "W-what shall I call you? You do not take kindly to being called ser or my lord, and I refuse to call you what _he_ called you."

"You called me Sandor before, when you came after me," he said, crawling forward to exit the little shelter. Sansa scrambled out after him and brushed her dress off. She was shocked at how cold it was outside of their shelter, and wrapped her arms around herself quickly.

"Here, try to move about a bit to warm your body up." Sandor said, moving to the saddles and saddle bag. The saddle blankets had kept everything dry for the night, luckily, and Sansa felt a moment of pride for thinking to cover them.

"I didn't know if you would come with me," Sandor said, and Sansa was amazed at how vulnerable he sounded, "But I packed a few things in case you said yes…" From the bag, Sandor pulled a simple dress of bluish grey wool, a linen under-dress, a pair of boots, a pair of woolen stockings, a dark grey cloak, and a sack of something that looked quite heavy.

"I'll just go break down the shelter while you change." Sandor muttered, handing her the pile of clothes. Sansa offered a smile and decided she would change behind Maiden for extra cover. Sansa gently stripped off her soiled dress and under-dress, leaving her smallclothes on. She dressed quickly in the brisk morning air, donning the warm wool gladly. When she had pulled the stockings and boots on, she looked at the sack and opened it.

"Lemons?" she asked aloud.

"Your hair is too recognizable, even this short. The lemons will lighten it." Sandor said gruffly as he pulled their little shelter apart, tossing the sticks about to make it look as though no one had been there at all.

"Oh. That's very clever." Sansa said as she took a lemon out of the bag. "What do I need to do exactly?"

"Cut it open and pour the juice over your head, make sure to rub it in all over. While we ride in the sun today, it'll lighten up. If you do it every day, soon you'll be as blonde as…" Sandor paused, realizing that to mention the Lannisters would make her uneasy, "The Targaryens."

Sansa knew what he was going to say, and was glad that he didn't say it.

"May I see your knife, Sandor?" she asked. Sandor gently placed his knife in her hand and went to saddle their horses as she sliced the lemon open. She carefully massaged its juice into her hair, enjoying the pleasant smell that reminded her of her favorite lemon cakes. She took a few extra moments to comb her hair out with her long fingers, thinking fondly of her mother.

"You need a name, Little Bird." Sandor said as he gave Stranger a pat, tightening his bit.

"My name is Sansa," she said incredulously, raising an eyebrow at Sandor.

"No. Sansa Stark needs to be put away for a while. You need to forget about her for the time being, if you want to make it to your family alive. So, pick a name." He looked at her expectantly.

"Catelyn?" she asked nervously, feeling the color rising up to her ears.

"You must be joking girl. With those Tully eyes of yours? Not likely…" Sandor grumbled, scratching his beard. "You like to sing, Little Bird, what about Wren?" he asked, looking up at the birds flitting through the light that filtered through their trees.

"Wren…I—I think I can remember that. Shall I be Wren…Snow, from the North? Or Wren Waters, from Kings Landing?" she asked, walking over to place her hands on Maiden's neck, gently combing her lovely mane.

"You're to be Wren Clegane, born Wren Smith, daughter of a blacksmith in Lannisport who was _lucky_ enough to be given to the second son of Lord Clegane…" Sandor rasped, tightening the billet strap on Maiden's saddle. Sansa looked at him, her eyes widening slowly.

"I'm to be…your wife?" she squeaked, wringing her hands and blushing.

"Aye, girl. Unless you'd like to be my whore instead, in which case I won't be able to stop other men from leering at you and grabbing you."

"No!" Sansa gasped, gripping his arm tightly. "No, please. I will be your wife, Wren Clegane. I promise I shall remember." she said softly, looking down at their feet. Sandor sighed and cupped her chin, lifting her face up to look into her eyes.

"I swore to protect you, Sansa. This is the only way I can be sure no one will try to sell you back to the Lannisters, and even this way you won't be safe. My face is too well known, and I am not a well-liked man…" Sansa realized suddenly that he was trying to reassure her, to apologize to her. She put her hand on his and set her face with stony resolve.

"My name is Wren, my sweet, who is this Sansa?" she said softly. Sandor's lips twitched into something like a smirk and he thumped her nose good-naturedly.

"A pretty girl I once knew. Come, we should ride out soon. I want to stay well ahead of anyone coming from Kings Landing. There is a stream a few miles ahead, we can try to fish for our breakfast." he said as he drew his cloak around his shoulders. Sansa looked down at the white cloak he'd simply left on the ground, and she knelt to pick it up.

"M-may I keep this?" she asked hesitantly. He looked down at her with a strange flicker of something shooting through his eyes.

"It's covered in blood, girl, not to mention it'll be like having a target on your back. Just leave it, let the mud bury it."

"Please…you gave it to me, when you thought I was not coming with you. I would keep it, if it please you, husband…" she said softly. Sandor looked at her and grumbled.

"Fine. Wear it beneath your other cloak or every King's-man from here to Harrenhal will be on us."

"Thank you." she whispered, gripping the cloak tightly. She draped it around her shoulders and then pulled the other cloak over top of it, making sure all the white was covered. Sandor helped her into her saddle, though she had already gotten the impression that Maiden wouldn't harm a bug on the ground. With all of their meager possessions packed and the horses saddled, they began their journey out of the forest and onto clearer ground.

They left The Hound and Sansa Stark behind in that forest and a new Sandor Clegane emerged with his lovely wife, Wren.


	3. Blood

Chapter 2~ Blood

Ridding all day had left Sansa sore all over, and her mood was dark. Sandor was even sourer than Sansa, the long ride and dark sky doing nothing for his ill temper. They had stopped once so Sandor could fish, but had moved on quickly, eating in their saddles. Sansa had been utterly opposed to eating the fish raw, so Sandor had grudgingly used one of the lemons to cook the fish in the juice. He assured Sansa it was safe to eat, and she found it surprisingly pleasant.

By the time they reached the inn, Sansa was ready to fall off of Maiden. Her thighs were numb, and her buttocks were hot with pain. Even her stomach seemed a huge bruise that faded into her chest and back. When they rode up to the stables Sandor dismounted and reached up to Sansa. When he lifted her up, she gasped in pain.

"What? Did I hurt you?" he asked, backing away from her when he placed her on the ground. Sansa shook her head as she gripped her stomach with one hand and reaching out to him with the other.

"Pain," she gasped, feeling his tunic suddenly under her hand as he stepped forward again.

"Where," he asked darkly, and then she heard him curse under his breath. She looked up to her saddle to see the sticky, drying blood all over the seat. She had been so numb and yet in so much pain that she hadn't even noticed the cause. Her moon's blood was on her.

"Damn it," Sandor cursed, "I don't know what to…how to…" he stumbled for the words, but couldn't seem to find them. Finally, he just picked her up and carried her into the inn, much to the shock of the ugly old woman who owned it.

"A room and a bath. Quick as you can." Sandor barked at the shriveled matron. She scowled at him and at Sansa.

"Can y' pay?" Sandor threw two coins at the wretch.

"There's two dragons. I'll pay for meals as well, but hurry with the damned bath, my wife's in pain." he growled at the woman. She parted her pruned lips and used the few teeth she had left to bite the coins. She nodded and led them up to a room. When she unlocked the door Sandor pushed past her and gently laid Sansa upon the bed.

"I'll just get the bath ready," the woman grunted, waddling out of the room. Sandor sat on the bed beside her and stunned himself by smoothing her hair back from her pretty face. For once, he couldn't stop his body from reacting to her. Most of the time he could grumble the feelings away, but for some reason her vulnerability made him want to comfort her as best as he could. When she leaned into his palm he felt his mouth go dry.

"Can I do anything, little bird?" he asked softly, awkwardly patting her hand as it rested on her lower stomach.

"Heat. I was once told that heat helps." Sansa whimpered, curling into the fetal position. Sandor looked around the room, trying to find anything that would help ease her pain. He looked down at his own hands and began rubbing them together. He placed one of his large, suddenly awkward paws on her stomach and watched her eyes open wide, then slowly close. He gently rubbed circles into her stomach, wondering where the damned bath was.

When the woman finally returned with three equally ugly lads behind her holding buckets of hot water, Sansa was curled up asleep on the bed.

"Leave," Sandor growled when the tub was filled.

"I'll be needing payment for your sup—"

"I said _leave_!" he barked, looming over the shriveled hag. She grumbled at him as she went, but she did leave. Sandor went to the bed and gently shook Sansa's arm.

"Wake up, little bird. Your bath's ready." he said as she rolled over. Sansa nodded dully, but gasped as she sat up. Her simple green dress was now stained brown near her womanhood where her moon's blood had been flowing.

"I've ruined my dress…" she said softly. Sandor lightly gripped her hand and pulled her up from the bed.

"I'll see if the old woman has some lye soap to get the blood out. Can you…take care of yourself?" Sandor asked uncomfortably. Sansa noticed his face redden. She nodded, not wanting to make him any more on edge.

"Fine. I'll wash this; you just get into bed when you're…feeling better."

Sandor made for the door, but Sansa stopped him.

"I…need a cloth…for the blood…to wear in my smallclothes…" Sansa stuttered, reddening with each new word. Sandor too began to turn red, but nodded silently and walked out the door.

When she was alone, Sansa slid from her smallclothes and into the hot water. She rinsed her hair, noting that the strands had lightened since that morning. She used a small clothe to scrub the dried blood from her thighs and the grime from everywhere else. When she finished, the water was a mucky brown color.

Moments after she was dry, a knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," Sansa said after wrapping one of the blankets from the bed around herself. Sandor walked in and froze in the doorway. His eyes shot from her face to her pale, white shoulders. She was beautiful. Even without her jeweled hairnets and fancy gowns, she was still the most beautiful thing Sandor had ever seen.

"Here's your… cloth," he coughed, laying the cloth on the bed. "The hag sent this up for you." he said as he laid a simple shift out on the bed.

"Thank you."

"Are you hungry, little bird?"

"Yes."

"Dress and I'll bring up some supper." Sandor said and left the room. Sansa let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and she changed into the shift. She put the cloth in her smallclothes and laid down on the bed. Sansa didn't know what was under the sheets, but the bed was very lumpy and not very soft at all. Despite the lumpy, uncomfortable mattress, Sansa found her eyes drifting closed.

Sandor opened the door and found the little bird asleep on the bed, her beautiful rosy lips parted in slumber. Even asleep she was elegant. Her toes pointed as though she were dancing and her delicate little hands rested on her stomach. Sandor looked to the tub and cringed at the sight of the bloody water. He did not like seeing her hurt, ever. He couldn't count the number of times he'd stopped himself from ripping Joffrey's head off, or how often he'd nearly slaughtered Meryn Trant with his own sword.

He didn't understand the way women's bodies worked, but he did know that after their first moon's blood, they could bear children. This was not her first moon's blood, he knew that well enough. Half of King's Landing knew that much. The thought of her trying to burn her room to hide the fact that she'd flowered made him sick, the thought of the little cretin planning to get a son on her made him livid though.

Sandor needed a drink. Badly.

The common area of the Inn was empty save for one of the ugly woman's ugly sons, and Sandor quickly scowled him out of the room. He sat himself far from the fireplace and ordered a flagon of wine. After draining it as easily as some drink water, he ordered a second and third. The second he drained slower than the first and the third he saved, knowing that if he had to bed down with Sansa in the forest again, he would need it.

When he was well and truly drunk, Sandor stumbled up the stairs to the room Sansa already slept in. He clamored through the door, leaving a trail of curses behind him, and looked at the bed where Sansa Stark lay slumbering. She's rolled onto her side, resting her face on the arm beneath her whilst stretching the other across the bed.

_She's reaching for you,_ a voice in Sandor's mind said. He snorted at the thought, not knowing where it came from, and he stripped down to his breeches. He tugged one of the blankets from the bed and collapsed on the floor with a grunt.

Sandor quickly sank into the wine-laced sleep he was so used to, but something made him awaken. Something drew him from his slumber, but he could not put his finger on it. When he opened his eyes, it took him long moments before he remembered where he was, and who he was with. That's when he heard the sound of steel scraping a scabbard. Even in his drunken state he had his sword out in seconds and threw himself in front of the little bird.

But when his eyes adjusted, he saw that she was not in her bed, but already in the arms of the intruder. Her innocent blue eyes were wide with terror and the man's hand covered her mouth.

"Take another step and she loses an arm. The King don't want her dead, but he didn't say anything about how many pieces she be in." Sandor recognized the intruder as one of the ugly lads that had brought in the bath water. He also realized he was not alone. The other ugly lad stood in the doorway holding a knife.

"Go Petyr! I can handle the drunken dog." the lad with the knife said. Slowly, Sandor's mouth twisted into a sickening smile. They thought he wouldn't be able to take them. They thought he was far drunker than he really was. They…were wrong.

One moment Sandor was just standing there, the next, he had his sword through the throat of the man holding Sansa. As he gurgled and sputtered his last seconds of life away, Sansa pushed him back, far from her, and rushed into Sandor's chest. He wrapped his sword-free arm around her and raised his sword at the other boy.

"Ready to handle the _drunken dog_ now, boy?" Sandor growled, holding Sansa tightly. The boy's ugly face was contorted in horror as he stared down at his dead brother.

"P-Petyr?"

"Is dead. Unless you want to join him, step aside." Sandor snarled. The boy started shaking, and glared at Sandor. _Don't do it, boy._ The boy screamed and rushed him. Sandor protectively tucked Sansa into chest as his sword met the boy's stomach. The sickening sound of a body being impaled on a blade filled the air and Sansa clutched Sandor's tunic.

Sandor pulled his sword from the dead boy's body and let it fall to the floor with a clatter. He turned Sansa to look at him and cupped her face.

"Are you alright, little bird?" he asked her softly, looking her face over. She gripped his wrists and nodded, then ducked into his chest again, shaking her head and gripping his tunic.

"He said he would break me in before giving me to Joffrey. He said…he said he'd kill you and make me watch while they burned the rest of your body." Sansa stuttered quickly into his chest. Sandor felt hot wet tears staining his tunic and he wrapped his arms around the girl tightly.

"I swore to protect you. I will never let anything happen to you. You will never have to go back to that monster, I swear it Sansa." he whispered to her. His walls were down due to the wine, he realized that much as the words came spilling out of his mouth. But he surprised himself with how drunk he was when he felt his lips brush hers. Before he could make himself pull back though, Sansa melted into his arms. She was not pushing him away.

"Murderer!" shrieked a voice. Sandor broke away and went to raise his sword, finding he'd dropped it. He cursed and grabbed it, but the ugly hag went for Sansa. Before he could part her head from her massive body, the woman managed to crack Sansa in the head with glass flagon. The glass shattered and the red wine within exploded all over the girl, just as her own blood began to seep from her temple.

Sandor roared in anger and mercilessly slaughtered the ugly wretch. By the time he sheathed his sword, his was the only blood not painting the floor with a gruesome tale.


	4. Gone

Chapter 3~ Gone

She opened her eyes slowly, finding that her lids weighed far too much. She reached up to wipe them and found her arms heavy, asleep themselves. When her hands finally reached her face, she felt a thick, sticky mess covering the right side of her forehead. She groaned and tried to sit up, but a large hand stopped her easily.

"Slow down, Little Bird. Here, let me help you." a male voice said softly. She felt a large hand on the small of her back, and the man helped her to sit up.

"I…what happened?" she asked groggily, trying to make her vision focus.

"You were hit in the head. How many fingers am I holding up?" She looked in front of her to see three massive fingers on an equally massive hand.

"Three," she groaned, rubbing her forehead. The man grunted in response and gently pushed her hair out of her face. She turned to him to see a mass of black locks hanging in his face.

"A-are you the maester?" she asked. The man barked a laugh.

"Aye, that's why there's still blood all over your pretty face. No, there's no maester in the forest, Little Bird. You'll have to do with me until we can find one, or find a wood's witch in place of one."

"I-if you're not the maester…then who are you?" she asked, trying to scoot as far away from him as she could. She could not see his face, but somehow she knew he was scowling.

"Don't be daft, girl. That isn't funny."

"I…please, ser, I don't mean to offend, but…I do not know you." she said timidly, trying to gain focus of her surroundings. She needed to run, to flee. She had to get away from this angry man. _But he's caring for you. He called you Little Bird. _

"Look at me, girl," the man rasped, and when she did not obey he roared, "Look at me!" He grabbed her chin roughly and forced her to look at him. His face was a frenzied mess of scars and torment, the right side almost as fear-invoking as the left. His cheekbones were sharp, his nose too, like a well-honed sword. Even his eyes were the cool grey of steel, a sharp face with an even sharper gaze. The left side of his face was a mass of reddened burn scars, his lips melting into a permanent sneer.

His eyes were hooded with a black brow, and his black hair was swept over to the left side, trying to hide the gnarled ruin of his face. There was something in his eyes, some emotion hidden in the grey depths. It pained her to look into those eyes, so she turned her head away and squeezed her eyes shut against the sight.

"I—I am sorry, ser…I do not recognize you…" she whispered.

"I'm no ser," his voice was strained, as though he was keeping himself from yelling at her.

"Please, I—where am I? H-how did I come to be injured? W-w—" she paused and wetted her lips, steeling herself, "Who am I?"

/-/

Sandor stared down at Sansa with disbelief. He had let himself believe that everything would be okay. He had slipped up and kissed her, and she hadn't pulled away. The old hag had seen to it that the single most perfect moment in his life had been ruined, though. Now, Sansa couldn't even remember him. Hells, Sansa couldn't even remember Sansa.

_She doesn't remember Sansa, he thought suddenly. She doesn't remember being a proper lady. She doesn't remember we're running..._

And then he had a revelation.

_She doesn't remember the Hound._

Sandor clenched his fingers into a fist and in one fluid movement he was across the little clearing they were sheltering in.

"I…You…Seven sheep buggering hells!" he roared and kicked over a massive fallen log. Sansa cringed, shrinking back noticeably. At least in this state she wasn't so intent on hiding her fear and feelings. _She doesn't remember the Hound…_he thought again.

"I am sorry, Little Bird…" he rasped, shoulders tight as a virgin's cunt. He ran a hand through his dirty black hair and exhaled loudly.

"Please, ser—um…my lord…can you tell me who I am?" Sansa asked pitifully. She was shaking with fear, her beautiful eyes rimmed red as though she was desperate not to cry.

"I am no ser, no lord. I'm the second son of an upstart house. I've no lands, no titles, no loyalties to any kings," he groaned, staring at her. _Just do it. It will be better to hide Sansa Stark when he doesn't even remember herself… _

"All I have is my wife, and she does not remember who I am now." His mouth spilled the words before he could stop it. Sansa's eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open, though she had the grace to cover it with one of her delicate, long-fingered hands.

"I…I am your wife?" she whispered. Sandor just nodded and fumbled with his hands, not sure what to do next or say.

"Y-you called me Little Bird…" she said, saving him from continuing the conversation.

"Aye. Your name is Wren, Wren Clegane. Before we wed, you were Wren Smith, the daughter of the blacksmith at Clegane Keep," and suddenly, Sandor heard the lie in his head and began spewing it into the clearing, "Your father saved my father's life once, and the only boon he asked was a good marriage for his only child. My brother would inherit the Keep, so you got the scarred son instead."

Sansa stared up at him, looking at him with a steady, blue gaze. She studied him closely, looking over every inch of him, her gaze burning him more than that fucking brazier ever had.

"What is your name…please?"

"Sandor, my name is Sandor." he answered, finding a softness in his voice he'd never heard before. Sansa slowly pushed herself up and tried to stand. As soon as she was vertical though, she stumbled forward. Sandor crossed to her in seconds and had her in his arms so she would not fall.

"Thank you…husband…" she said, tasting the word on her tongue.

"You usually just call me Sandor…" he said softly. He righted her and looked at the gash on her forehead. "Does that hurt badly?" he asked. His hand reached up without his permission and cupped Sansa's cheek. She shut her eyes tightly, and Sandor knew she was forcing herself to remain still and not turn away. He quickly pulled his hand away, as though burned, and drew away from her.

"I'm sorry," he rasped quietly. He reached for the wine skin and uncorked it, ready to pour the contents down his throat, but something stopped him. The Hound would get drunk, the Hound would get angry and mean and silent. You are no longer the Hound, as she is no longer Sansa.

"Here, Wren. Sit so I can clean your wound." he said, pouring some wine onto a torn cloth. She hesitantly sat between his legs, facing him, and closed her eyes as he began to gentle the dried blood away from her pale forehead. The gash was broad and deep, starting in her hair and spindling down over her right temple and onto her forehead. As he gently cleaned the dried blood away, bruises bloomed like lilacs across her milky skin.

"I know a bit about wounds, and will try to help as best as I can before we find a maester or a woods witch. Even so, it may scar."

"H-how did it happen?" Sansa asked softly.

"We were fleeing King's Landing. War's broken out between King Joffrey's forces and those of King Stannis. A low branch caught you and knocked you off your horse."

"Fleeing? Surely the Keep would be the safest place during battle?"

"Not for me, not for you."

"Oh," was all she said. She chewed on her lip as he finally finished cleaning her head. Sandor sighed, not knowing how to explain why either of them had to leave King's Landing, or why Wren Clegane would even be at court since she was so young and the Kinsguard took no wives.

"I was the King's shield, before we married, and he is a greedy, demonic child who was never told 'no' by anyone. He liked taking things that did not belong to him…and you happened to interest him far more than a man's wife should interest another man," Sansa gasped lightly.

"There was a girl he was to marry, from the North, but she realized his cruelty when he killed her father, and she escaped. You both had red hair, and for Joffrey that was enough. He would have raped you and asked me to thank him for the honor he did me. I won't have it. No one will touch you, or I'll kill them with my bare hands." he grumbled.

Sandor forced himself to calm down, and jumped slightly when he felt Sansa's small hand cover his.

"I…I can't remember you…Sandor…but you clearly care for me. I feel…safe…" she said hesitantly. Sandor opened his mouth to answer with a snarky comment, but something stopped him. _She doesn't remember the Hound._

"You are my wife…Wren. It is for me to keep you safe." he said softly. Sansa leaned in to him and for one glimmering moment he thought she was going to kiss him. Instead, she placed her small hand on his unscarred cheek. Sandor used every ounce of his self control to not scorn her and push her away.

_She doesn't remember the Hound._

_But you do…_


	5. Adjustment

**A/N: So this is the beginning of the chapters that are NOT inherited, although the basic plotline I'm working with for now is still inherited, but I've got ideas for where this is going in the future... This chapter is dedicated to **_**JuliaAurelia**_**, a reader and reviewer of this story. Hope this chapter is to your liking, Julia!**

** -C**

Sandor watched her sleep, her pretty face peaceful despite the wound that was a reminder of his lie.

Had he done the right thing?

It would protect her.

What if she remembered the truth? What would she say? How could he make her see that he did it for her best interests?

But he couldn't worry about that until the time arose. She would sense his fear if he tried to solve problems that may never arise. And what was even more terrifying about that question was what if she never remembered? Could he be happy letting her believe a lie and could he tell himself for the rest of their lives that it was the right thing?

No, he had to focus. He had to get her somewhere safe, somewhere they could settle and he could make sure she was known as her new persona.

Sansa - Wren - shifted slightly in her sleep, her peaceful face scrunching slightly. She was waking and he was surprised that she moved closer to him as she woke.

She smiled slightly as her Tully blue eyes blinked open, and she looked up at him. Her smile stayed and he felt himself longing to kiss her for that simple gesture alone.

But that would surely wipe the smile from her face.

"Good morning, my husband," she said softly, sleepily, blinking the sleep from her eyes. "Are we travelling right away?"

_Gather yourself, Hound_, he thought. _Fight the urge to lay with her all day. She's not really your wife, dog_.

"Very soon, yes," he said, clearing his throat slightly. "Do you feel able to, or is your head not well?"

She sat up to test her head, her auburn hair cascading around her shoulders in a way she couldn't possibly realize was as sensual as it really was. Sandor could feel his body aching to touch her, but he fought the impulse to stroke that beautiful auburn hair, to take it in his fingers and smell it, although he doubted it smelled half so sweet in that forest as it did in King's Landing.

"My head is much better, Sandor," she chirped sweetly.

His name still sounded sweet on her tongue, better even than it had before, in a way, because he didn't feel like she was saying it because she didn't know what else to call him. She was using it because it was his name, because it was what she called him.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, this amnesia, after all. Perhaps keeping her safe would merely be the added advantage.

He gathered some food for breakfast from his pack, knowing she would be hungry.

_Serve your lady, dog. That's what good dogs do; serve their mistress loyally, even if she can't recall them. And that's all you are to her, a dog to lick at her heels for the morsels she may drop your way and protect her from harm_.

He shook his head slightly, dejectedly. The truth wasn't pleasant, but it was better not to lie to himself. Bread for breakfast, and he had a bit of wine in his wineskin that he would give to her. He never wanted to drink again, not if it put Sansa - Wren - in danger.

She was sitting up the furs, clutching her legs to her, resting her chin on her knees as he approached. Somehow she looked smaller in that posture and the thought of her being in danger made his own stomach churn uncomfortably. She had no way to defend herself if something should happen to him, and he'd made a promise, to him and her and whatever gods might exist somewhere. He'd sworn to protect her, and he would do it in death if that was the hand that was dealt him. Sandor took the dagger from his things and handed it to her. She took it, frowning slightly in confusion, touching the hilt with her delicate little fingers.

"What's this?" she asked.

"I know you haven't forgotten what a dagger looks like, Little Bird," he snorted wryly.

Best not to treat her too differently. She was supposed to be his wife, not his ward, not his charge, not his mistress. Treating her gently would seem odd to any they might come across.

"Why have you given it to me?" she asked, not seeming phased by his rough behavior toward her.

That was good.

"For you to protect yourself," he grunted. "Should you ever have to, for any reason, you are to use that, do you understand."

She nodded, pretty blue eyes wide with surprise.

"Do you suppose I will have to?" she asked breathlessly.

_No. No, I will protect you from everything and never leave your side again, Sansa_.

But she was no longer Sansa, she was Wren, he reminded himself.

"It is always a possibility," he grunted, "and I would rather you were prepared if it did happen than not. Now eat. We may have a long journey today before we find food. The wars have left most villages starving."

"That's terrible," she sighed, more to herself than to him.

His heart clenched with fear. He half expected her to start spouting some nonsense about true nights and protecting the weak, but she said nothing else.

Surely she was still herself behind her loss of memory. Something could cause her to remember herself at any time, something like a song. But if he was to give her a life safe and not in hiding, she could not be kept from all the singers in the realm. He would have to watch carefully for any sign she might be remembering herself, just in case.

They had their breakfast in silence, him watching her eat and wondering how she still ate with such grace, such refinement. She was still Sansa Stark, even if she didn't recall it.

He would have to do something, lest someone else recognize her before she could recognize herself.

With a snort, he said, "You sure picked up the graces of King's Landing, Little Bird. You'd do well to lose them."

She blinked up at him, confused.

"What?"

"You're eating like a buggering high-born lady," he said disparagingly. "It's better if you don't, for safety in these times."

It wasn't a lie. It wasn't another lie, and somehow that thought comforted him.

One less thing he would have to worry about if she remembered, another sign that he was protecting her.

While she finished eating, he got Stranger ready for travel. He would need to decide where to go, which way they might be less likely to be recognized, or at least her.

He was recognized across the realm.

Sandor decided he would have to take her south, south and west perhaps, further from the Eyrie and Riverrun, where she would be expected to make for. Perhaps he could take her to her mother someday, but not until the war was over. If she was somehow involved in the war, Sansa - Wren - would be in danger, and he'd promised to keep her out of danger, to protect her.

No, not to Riverrun. Not to the Eyrie.

_Not north_.

There were some villages closer to Starfall that they could hide out in, ones that would have been more or less untouched by the devastation of war and would remain so if there were any gods at all. That was where they would go.

She was finished eating when he came back to fetch her and the rest of their things.

"We are going south, Little Bird," he said. "As fast as we can. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

She frowned slightly.

"South?" she asked.

"Is that a problem?"

_Please don't be a problem._

"N-no, Sandor," she said meekly, shaking her head, confused. "I just felt for some reason that we were going to go north. But south is safer?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "Much safer."

"Then south we shall go."

_Please let it be safer. I don't want to tell her more lies_.

He helped her onto Stranger and climbed up behind her, grabbing the reins and trying not to think about how much he liked the feeling of having her body between his legs.

_You are a dog. You don't deserve to touch her, much less hold her_.

Forget about fucking.

With a deep breath, he set them off south, all the while praying to whatever god would listen that he made the right choice on where to go, on what to say, on the lie he told Sansa - Wren.

To keep her safe. It was all to keep her safe, his only vow. The only vow that mattered.

/-/

Wren.

Wren Clegane.

It sounded nice, nicer than Wren Smith.

She wondered if she had been happy when she married Sandor. She wondered if she had been pleased to have a strong husband, or frightened of his face. She wondered how he had treated her on their wedding night, and the nights after.

But she could remember none of it. It didn't even have a familiar sound to it, none of it, but that was probably part of the forgetting.

She knew that he was kind to her. She knew his strength was comforting, especially as he sat behind her on his warhorse. She knew his face did not make her feel afraid, but calm.

He must truly be her husband, if even such a truly terrible face could awaken such comfort in her.

Not that he had any cause to lie to her, she knew. They had fled King's Landing together. They were going south.

Something about going south still bothered her, but she couldn't quite decide what it was. He had told her that south would be safer, and that was what they wanted. But she had this feeling that there was something important in the north. Someone waiting, or something she had to get.

But Sandor was taking her south, to be safe, and while she trusted him she wasn't sure how she felt about going south.

The horse bounced her about more than she would have liked, but when she grabbed her husband's legs in discomfort, he leaned forward and said in her ear, "Just relax a bit, Little Bird. We've got a long way to go and I don't want you falling out of the saddle."

So she tried to relax, difficult as it was.

Although she had broken her fast well enough, she found that she was quite hungry when they rode, and they'd yet to reach a village.

Sandor stopped them twice a day for meals, and rest at night. He looked at her wound, cared for any blisters she'd gotten on her legs and rump from the rough riding, apologizing all the while for what he called her 'buggering tender skin', and she wondered why his hands were so hesitant on her legs as he dealt with the blisters.

He was her husband. Surely he had seen her legs many times before

Perhaps he was hesitant to cause her even a bit of pain. That seemed possible, with the tender way his rough hands dealt with all her hurts. Each time she whimpered in pain in spite of herself, he would pause for a moment before continuing on his work, as though the sound was uncomfortable for him.

_He must be a very noble husband, to feel so about my pain. He must be a great man to care for me so_.

"How far are we from Starfall?" Wren asked on the second morning since they'd set out for the south.

"Maybe a day's hard ride, if we keep on the pace we've been doing," Sandor said with a shrug, offering her some bread. "We'll need to get there fast, anyway. This is almost the end of our food."

Wren nodded.

Thinking of herself as Wren felt odd, but she liked when he called her Little Bird. It felt familiar, it felt comforting and good. And so she sometimes thought of herself as Little Bird, because she liked it better than Wren.

He was right about the hard ride, which felt even harder with all of her blisters, no matter how well he had tended them. Her skin was still raw and uncomfortable, but she gritted her teeth and told herself that she could handle just one more day of hard riding if it meant being safe, being able to find a place to rest and start over with her husband.

Sandor helped her down from Stranger when they stopped briefly for food and he instructed her to eat quickly.

"This is the last of our food," he said gruffly. "So we're going to have to press to get to Starfall and not stop until we reach a proper village near it, all right?"

Wren nodded her understanding of their situation, although the very suggestion that they might not make a village before their next meal and stopping for the night made her a bit frightened.

But there was no need to be worried, she told herself. Sandor would make sure she got food. He would find a way to make sure she was safe and warm and fed. He was her husband and he cared for her and protected her.

Everything would be fine.

Sandor helped her back onto Stranger after the meal they sped through and she tried to settle as comfortable as possible on the saddle. Her wounds were still raw, but she felt her body relax of its own accord when Sandor climbed behind her in the saddle, move his arms around her to take the reins again.

"Are you set, Little Bird?"

She nodded, fighting the urge to grip his legs once more. From what he had said, it would another long, hard ride, and she didn't want to fall out of the saddle any more than she had when he warned her of it the first time.

_Relax._

She was safe, she was with her husband, and it wouldn't be too long now until they could rest.

The ride was even harder, she thought, that all the riding they'd done previously. Perhaps it was her wounds pulsing with every bump, or perhaps it was just that she was just so exhausted of riding, but she felt as though every moment was packed with twice as much riding as the previous moment, and she was wondering how Stranger could stand the speed and their weight. War horses truly were a wonder.

As the sky above grew darker she found herself having a hard time keeping her eyes open, and she realized she was leaning back against her husband's strong chest.

"Almost there, Little Bird," he told her, although he made no efforts to keep her awake, merely holding her against him with one hand as he urged Stranger onward with the other. The world around her, limited though it was, faded into sleep as she leaned back against his chest and let her eyes flutter closed, comforted by the thought that her husband would never let her fall from his horse.

Wren was awoken by the gentle shaking of her husband.

"Little Bird," he growled. "Come now, we have arrived."

Her eyes blinked open and he helped her down from the horse, almost lifting her out of the saddle and placing her on her feet like she was a sack of flour.

It was dark outside, very dark indeed, and she realized they were at the stable of an inn. Sandor turned to Stranger to take care of him and she leaned against a wooden support beam in her exhaustion.

"Should I go into the inn, husband?" she asked softly, more a murmur than her typical speech.

"No," he said firmly. "You shouldn't leave my sight until I am comfortable with this village."

She looked around the stable, thinking that it seemed a perfectly adequate stable, especially for an inn in some village. It could have been the stable of a castle but for its size. There was a pretty bay in the back looking at her as she took in her surroundings sleepily, and Wren couldn't help but smile at it. She thought she would like a pretty horse like that, in spite of the fact that her rump never wanted to be in contact with a saddle ever again.

"There," Sandor finally said. "In we go, Little Bird."

He supported her weight as they went into the inn, were directed to their room by a kindly innkeeper, who although he didn't seem fond of Sandor's face at first glance, didn't spare it a second one.

Just the sort of innkeeper Sandor was hoping for, it seemed.

"We'll get you a hot bath tomorrow, Little Bird," Sandor whispered, helping her out of her gown and into bed. "You look about ready to fall asleep standing up."

She murmured her agreement with the plan, curling up under the sheets he pulled up to her neck.

Wren could feel Sandor move away from her and she moaned slightly, missing thing comfort and warmth that even her sleepy mind knew meant that she was safe. But it didn't last long. He was in his smallclothes when he climbed under the covers with her, wrapping his strong arms around her and holding her body tightly.

Warm. He was warm and strong and safe. And that was exactly how Wren felt as her mind drifted off to the world of sleep, where she could be someone else heading north to take back a great castle from darkness and fire.


	6. Healing

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to **_**Svenson**_**, a new follower of this story. I hope this chapter is to your liking, **_**Svenson**_**, and all you other lovely readers who have shocked me with your intense response to this story!**

** On a different note, I published my novella a few days ago! I'd really appreciate if you'd consider getting a copy! Details are on my profile, and if you use the coupon code JE64M, you can get 60% off until 11/26/2012. Thanks for your support!**

** -C**

Wren awoke to find Sandor watching her from a chair on the other side of the room, a thoughtful look on his scarred face. She sat up a bit on the pillows, her hair shifting on her shoulders as she blinked the sleep away from her eyes.

"Is something the matter?" she asked him tiredly. "You seem pensive, like something's wrong."

"Nothing is the matter, exactly," he sighed. "Not yet, anyway. The problem is how we're going to sustain a life here until the war is over."

"Oh," she said softly. "I see."

That was something she hadn't thought of. This village they were in, it wasn't their home. They were living in an inn, but without any source of income, and no assets available to them but whatever Sandor had brought with them. She'd not thought about it before, but he was right. If the war went on very long, they might need to get creative.

"Have you got any ideas, husband?" she asked, getting out of bed and feeling her stomach turn in an almost pleasant sort of way as he watched her uncover her body, which was wearing naught but her smallclothes. "Any suggestions for how we get by?"

He blinked at her for a moment as she found a dress to pull on.

When she'd adjusted her dress and done up the laces on the front, he cleared his throat slightly and said, "I was talking to some of the women in the common area, actually, while you were sleeping. It seems that all of the fighting men are off at the war, and so they're completely left open to brigands in this little village. From the sound of things, they get enough for me to have steady employment as the protector and rebuilder of the village until the war is over. The women assured me that they would all contribute whatever they could to make us comfortable while we're here..."

"I think that's a wonderful idea," Wren said, frowning down at her laces. Her fingers were clearly still sleepy as they fumbled with the laces.

"Here," Sandor said gently, taking the laces and doing them up with his surprisingly deft fingers. Perhaps he'd had to do a lot of tying things as a soldier, maybe when he was learning how to deal with wounds. "There's a woman who said would look at your head, as well. Apparently she's an excellent healer. The other women swore by her expertise. I wouldn't want any less dealing with your head, Little Bird."

"When will we go to see her?" Wren asked, turning to a looking glass to straighten out her hair.

Sandor stood behind her, watching her fiddle with her hair as he replied, "As soon as you've had breakfast, Little Bird. Are you hungry?"

She hadn't realized until he'd said so, but she was actually starving. She nodded, and he held out his hand to help her to her feet, and then followed her down to the common area.

The innkeeper put out some indistinguishable sort of gruel in front of her, and a glass of some sort of red wine... Or at least, she thought it was wine.

"It's more appetizing than it looks, I promise," a woman said with a smile. "What did you say your wife's name was, Sandor?"

"Wren," Sandor said gruffly. "Wren Clegane."

"Yes, I'd figured that bit," the woman said teasingly. "Oh, yes, we'll have to get her to Meg soon for that head. How many days ago was it?"

"Several," Sandor said gruffly.

"Meggary," the kindly woman explained to Wren. "She's a woods witch, and a very good one. I'm Lyra, if it please you, m'lady."

"I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lyra," Wren said sweetly and truthfully.

"Meg will patch up your head quite well, m'lady, even being as old a wound as it is," Lyra assured. "I will leave you to your breakfast, but I'll be out with the horses when you're finished and I will take you around the village."

"To the woods witch first, of course," Sandor pressed gruffly.

"Naturally, m'lord," Lyra said with a nod as she left the in to check on the horses.

"I like her very much," Wren said, wishing she could say the same about her food.

"She seems honest," Sandor said softly. "That's all I care very much about."

"But surely we're safe here," Wren muttered, sniffing what was probably her wine before taking a sip of the sour red liquid.

Sandor did not answer, merely watched her drink the wine as she tried not to show on her face how bitter the taste was. She was apparently not very good at hiding her feelings, for she thought she saw amusement twitching at the corner of the unburned side of his mouth. It looked strange on him, almost grim in a way, but she decided that she liked it anyway.

What she didn't like was her breakfast, but she managed to swallow it down anyway, not wanting to worry her husband about her appetite when it was simply unappetizing food. Perhaps he wouldn't mind, but until she knew more of the sort of man he was she didn't want to risk it.

"Finished, then?" he asked. Wren nodded. "All right, out to the stables we go, then."

He held out his arm to help her to her feet and she took it gladly, feeling some sort of thrill in the chivalrous gesture.

_My husband is a kind man, whatever he looks like. He must love me to take such cares._

They reached the stables to find Lyra brushing Stranger and Stranger seeming to rather enjoy it.

"Well that's a sight," Sandor snorted. "Usually he bites whoever goes near him."

Lyra smiled.

"Sometimes horses react better to women than strange men, m'lord. Especially warhorses, whose knowledge of strange men is often that they are trying to do in the horse and rider both. I see you are done eating. Would you like to go through the village now?"

"Of course," Sandor said, and Wren noticed that he shifted slightly as though checking that his sword was easily accessible. For a man who had supposedly taken her somewhere safe, he didn't seem to feel very safe at all where they were. Wren wondered if this was because they really were in some sort of danger or if it was a habit from years of fighting or days of running.

She hoped it was the latter as Lyra led them through the village.

"That house," she said, pointing to a quaint but obviously unlived-in cottage a few houses from the in, "is empty. Brice went off to war, but we got word fast that he'd died before the fighting had even begun. And his wife, Arista, died not long after, of grief, Meg reported. She can't cure grief any more than a maester can, and if a woman wants to die... Well, it's not much and it's been without care for some time now, but if you care for it at all it's yours. It has been agreed. They had no children, you see, and no relatives in the area to claim it."

"We will look inside when we are done with healing my wife's head," Sandor said shortly. "But if it will serve, it will serve."

"I think that it will, m'lord," Lyra chirped, leading them along to the house at the very end of the village, where a woman who was probably a few years younger than Sandor sitting in front of a tree, eyes closed, with the look of someone listening intently.

Wren felt nervous looking at this woman who was not quite beautiful, but pretty in an unusual sort of way, with a very high forehead and long, graceful fingers which were feeling at the grass around her. Was this the woods witch?

"You've brought someone with an injury, Lyra," Meggary said softly, opening her eyes to reveal the pale silver irises that had been hidden as they had approached. Her common brown hair seemed out of place swirling around the silver eyes in the wind. Wren felt the urge to shiver, but fought it. "Bring her inside and I will start out learning about the wound. Then you will take her husband out so I can work in piece."

"I'm not leaving her side until it is finished," Sandor growled, and Wren felt a rush of affection for him once more.

Meg looked at him firmly with her eerie eyes and said softly, "You will leave her alone with me to be healed, or you will not have her healed. It is your choice."

/-/

Sandor kicked the leg of the chair. There was nothing wrong with the cottage exactly, he was simply furious that the woods witch had worked him into a corner that involved leaving Sansa unprotected, even though it meant her being healed.

_Wren. Her name is Wren, and it's not good for anyone if you forget that, dog._

He'd told the woman what he'd done for the wound so far and then Lyra carted him off to the cottage that would become their home to keep him out of Meggary's way. In truth, he probably would have been in the way, attempting to pry the wench off of his Little Bird every time Sansa winced or gasped or-

_Wren, not Sansa, you bloody idiot._

At least the cottage wasn't in total disrepair. He would patrol the town on waking and seeing that his wife had eaten, then he would patrol, work on his cottage, patrol again after lunch, then work some more and patrol again before bed, and there was an alarm bell should he be needed in the night. When the work was finished on the cottage, he would repair some of the other homes and buildings in the village, which had been damaged by brigands a few times throughout the war already.

_I'll do the roof first. Then these beams need replacing._

He was resting his hand on a beam that he was sure was rotting. Even if the owners of the small house hadn't died, they would have needed replacing soon enough by someone.

"Everything works as far as I know," Lyra had said before going back to check on Meggary and S-Wren. "But you can check the stove and the like if it suits you. Let me know if there's anything I can do and I'll do my best."

The one thing he could certainly say for this village was that it had a solid advocate in Lyra, who knew everyone, what they needed, and found some way to make sure each family and woman in her village was provided for as well as possible, in spite of the war. Sandor had been relieved that she had been satisfied with his story of his wife and leaving King's Landing. She seemed the type to ask questions.

Sandor crossed to a small room that he knew would be the room he would be sharing with S- his wife. He recalled the sight of her bending over in naught but her smallclothes, looking for a dress to put on that morning as though he weren't even in the room and his cock stirred in his pants. Would they take much longer healing her? He found himself suddenly hoping it was a lengthy process when he could hear the voices of Lyra and S- Wren outside the cottage and growing ever closer.

He would have to deal with it later.

"Husband, it will be healed in three days," his little bird chirped as she crossed the threshold of the little cottage, and he had a sudden vision of a cloak draped around her, carrying her over that very same threshold in his arms, and over to the little bedroom he'd been looking at and...

If he didn't stop thinking like that she would see tent in his trousers.

_She thinks you're her husband. She shouldn't find it strange._

But what would he do if she did or said something about it?

_You don't deserve her, dog. Remember that. If she were to find out what you've done..._

She would know he was doing it to keep her safe.

Aye, but did that make his lecherous behavior any less disgusting? She was sweet and innocent, even more so now that she didn't recall what had happened to her at King's Landing, Joffrey's torture, her father's death...

_You don't deserve her._

He gave her head an approving nod and she explained in her happy, chirping voice the instructions this Meggary - Meg, she called the woman - had given for caring for it on her own.

Sandor had a hard time listening to the words, watching both young women begin cleaning the room they were standing in as though they'd been doing it all day, just picking up where they'd left off after a short break, acting as if of one mind.

Suddenly, he was thinking that being in a village with almost entirely women and children would be more of a headache than he wanted to take.

_But it will keep her safe, so of course it is what you'll do. Because there's nothing you want more than her safety, is there?_

He had a vision of him thrusting deep inside of her and her screaming his name, her pretty little head thrown black in pleasure.

Perhaps there was more that he wanted, but he couldn't bring himself to just take it as he had been so ready to do in King's Landing. For one thing, she was even more vulnerable now, not even knowing who she was. For another, he wasn't nearly drunk enough to hold a knife to her pretty throat, and he wouldn't be drunk enough if he was going to do his duty to keep her and the rest of the village safe as he'd promised.

For a man who wasn't much for oaths and vows, he was finding himself entangled by the oaths he'd sworn himself to keep his Little Bird safe, and he realized as he watched them cleaning that they'd become even more important to him than the vow he'd made to kill his brother, the Mountain.

_Bloody girl has changed everything._

What was he going to do when she started noticing that he was being a distant husband?

Because he had to distance himself, no matter how badly he wanted to kick Lyra out, pull Sansa -Wren - into the bedroom and fuck her bloody, for both of their sakes. But mostly hers.

When Lyra finally did leave, to bring them a bit of food to start out with, which she assured Sandor that he didn't need to pay for up front, since he was being employed by the village now, Sandor watched his little 'wife' sit down in a nearby chair looking exhausted. He would have thought that after the days of hard riding this would feel relaxing to her, but then, her head wasn't fully healed yet.

Sandor sat beside her, wanting to take her little shoes off her feet and touch her sweet skin, to caress away the wear of the day. It was strange, the sort of thing he'd never wanted to do before, and so he decided it was a silly, fanciful thought, and he did not reach out for her at all. Instead, he watched her as she sighed, looking out of a nearby window to see if Lyra was returning yet.

"I like it very much here," she said nervously. "They seem very friendly."

"That they do," he grunted in agreement. He couldn't argue that, at the least.

She looked down at the floor for a moment before saying, very softly, "I'm sorry to be so much trouble, Sandor."

He blinked.

Trouble? How could she think she was trouble? He'd begged her to come with him. He'd...

But she didn't remember any of that. She knew nothing about how he'd told her that he was taking her away with a blade to her throat, that he'd forced her to give him a song...

"Little Bird," he said gruffly, "you have been no trouble."

"Please don't lie," she sniffed, her pretty blue eyes filling with unshed tears. "It was because of me you had to leave King's Landing. My head and my amnesia have caused all sorts of problems. I... I'm so sorry, Sandor."

_No, it's not your fault. None of this is your fault, Little Bird. It is mine for thinking I could protect you, for thinking you'd be better with a dog like me than a monster like Joffrey. Was it right? What was the right thing to do? Your pretty face shouldn't be stained with bitter tears..._

But before Sandor could do a thing she wiped them away, seeing Lyra approaching with bundles of food, and far more than Sandor had expected.

"Here we go," Lyra said breathlessly as S- Wren and Sandor helped relieve her of some of her burden, finding places to put the food that would last them at least a week. Sandor had the uneasy feeling that Lyra herself was going to be eating a bit less that week so that the new couple would have plenty.

He would have argued, but Lyra seemed the type to find excuses for forcing the food upon them, like hospitality, payment for Sandor's not-yet-begun services to the village, and even his 'wife's' injury. So he accepted the food and Lyra promised to walk with him through the rest of the village in the morning for his first rounds.

So all he had left to concern himself with was the silly Little Bird he had no idea what to do with.


	7. Unsettled

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to **_**Midnightdawn67**_**, whose review has given me the impetus to start this chapter, even in the midst of the toughest part of the semester AND NaNoWriMo... Thank you, Dawn, and I hope you find this chapter equally interesting.**

** -C**

Sandor awoke before the sun, as he had become accustomed to doing, although he stayed up well into the night. He found that it didn't matter that he got as much sleep as he'd previously been allowed in King's Landing, because the time sleeping beside S- Wren was more refreshing than any sleep he'd ever had before in his life.

_It's in your head, dog. The sleep isn't any different._

But he didn't mind, even if it was all in his head.

He couldn't see her very well in the poor light of their little bedroom, but well enough for the beginning of his day. He would see her when she woke, and when he came back for lunch, and dinner, and when he came back at the end of the day for sleep when she was already fast asleep in their bed, to both his annoyance and relief. She always looked so peaceful that the relief won out, though, and he never did anything rash.

Little Bird had taken to spending her days cleaning and cooking with Lyra, and befriending the woods witch, Meggary, who was teaching the Little Bird the ways of healing and, Sandor expected, apprenticing her as a woods witch. He might have tried to object somehow, but he was unsure on what grounds, and he would rather that she was keeping busy than sitting around trying to remember her past.

That was better for everyone, he reminded himself, although the more he thought it the more it felt like a terrible lie.

With one hand, he leaned over her sleeping form and brushed a bit of hair out of her face, admiring the beauty of her form one more time before going to sharpen his sword and patrol the village. He felt a sudden urge to kiss her barely-parted lips, so strong an urge that he found himself leaning down to them, but he caught himself just in time.

If he should wake her, he reminded himself, he would perhaps have to contend with her consciousness, and he wasn't prepared to handle whatever she thought her duty to him might be as his wife.

Although his body was certainly prepared, he realized as he made his way out of the room and noticed how hard his cock was.

_This bloody war had better be over bloody quick so I can get the Little Bird out of my life and make a new life._

But even as he thought it he knew how ridiculous of a thought it was. Could he really live without her now that he'd grown so accustomed to falling asleep beside her, to the sound of her sweet voice calling him husband, to the feel of her skin against his fingertips as he touched her gently each morning and night to feed his hunger for her?

Never. He could never imagine a life without her, so all he could hope was that she remain a nameless, faceless girl he'd married, and not rediscover her identity as Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

And what if she did remember? What then? Could he find some way to stay with her?

As a sworn shield, perhaps, a dog to sit at her feet and do her bidding, but never as he wanted. He would not possess her, he would not be allowed to love her. He could love her as his liege lady, no more. Anything more would be improper and completely unreturned.

_And don't you forget that, dog. Don't you dare forget that she's too good for you._

Pushing the impossible thoughts from his mind, Sandor quickly sharpened his sword, wanting to get his patrolling for the morning out of the way so he could work on the house and maybe catch a glimpse or two of his 'wife' as she went about her morning. Sometimes, when they first got there, he would linger near enough to the window to watch her changing into her clothes for the day, running her hands along her arms to cover up the chill on her skin from taking off the blanket. He watched her pulled on the clothing over her pale skin, watched her bend over to situate her dress before stepping into it.

She was breathtaking, there was no denying that, and perhaps it was his imagination, he mused as he sharpened his sword, but it seemed to Sandor that she actually grew more beautiful, more enticing with each passing day. He licked his lips lightly, glancing back into the room where she was sleeping like an angel, the light just starting to come into the cottage from outside.

_Beautiful_.

No, it wasn't in his imagination. She'd gone from a beautiful highborn lady to the Maiden herself, tempting him with her pretty blue eyes and her perfectly shaped body. And that body, he thought to himself as she shifted slightly on their bed, was only going to become more appealing as she grew older, for she could not stay a girl of three-and-ten forever.

Although he wouldn't mind if she could. He wouldn't mind at all if he could just freeze time and have them stay as they were forever, he would do it.

But the world didn't work that way, and even the mercy of the gods, rare as it was, twisted into something unwanted where Sandor was concerned, all his life.

"Sandor?" she muttered, sitting up in their bed, a small frown just visible on her pretty little face.

"I'm in here, Little Bird," he called. "Sharpening my sword."

"Oh," she sighed. "Is it so early?"

"Aye, it is," he replied, deciding his sword was sufficiently sharp. "I shall be off to patrol."

"I'll have breakfast ready for when you get back, love," she said firmly.

She had taken to making his food for him, and Sandor had to admit to himself that watching her perform wifely duties gave him more pleasure than anything he would have imagined from such simple actions. Sheathing his sword, Sandor donned his coat and went out into the early morning, the sun just beginning to come up from the look of things as he walked. He would have a hot breakfast and a pretty 'wife' waiting for him when he got back to the cottage in about half an hour. What more could he possibly want?

Nothing was happening in the sleepy little village, luckily. If it had, Sandor wouldn't have been too much help. He was too busy trying not to think of the pretty girl back in his cottage and what she might be doing at each moment he was walking along. None of the villagers were awake yet, which was another blessing, because sometimes some woman or another would stop him, asking for his help lifting this or that, moving something or fixing something or cutting some old piece of furniture so they didn't have to send their seven-year-old son out to scrounge for firewood.

It wasn't that Sandor particularly minded doing these small chores for the women of the village. After all, they were taking care of him and S-Wren for the work he did, and it wasn't difficult or time consuming at all for him. The villagers were friendly enough, and his scars were scarcely even noticed, much less any sort of issue. He just preferred finishing his patrols as quickly as possible so he could work on the cottage and be closer to S-Wren.

_And when the cottage is done, what then, dog? Will you break things you've just fixed to be closer to her?_

It would be foolishness, but the thought seemed strongly appealing to Sandor.

No, but even then he could not be guaranteed to be near her. She was spending more and more time with the woods witch, Meggary. Even though she was more or less healed, she was learning about herbs and things like that, and he knew she felt like she was being given a purpose so he really couldn't argue with it. S-Wren was always so happy when she came back after a long day with Meggary to feed him dinner and she had new herbs and healing methods to tell him about.

_No harm in it._

And her voice and face lit up so when she could tell him of all the new things she was learning. How could he deny her something that brought her so much happiness, even if it had nothing to do with him? No, even Sandor Clegane couldn't be so cruel, not to Little Bird, who was in some desperate need of happiness in her life. He had seen that so clearly, even in King's Landing, seeing the sadness behind her bright blue eyes and wanting kiss it all away.

But she would never want a monster like him, so he should just let her delight in what she could, even if it was not him. Yes.

/-/

She was getting used to her life, strange as it was. Wren had fallen into the routine with some level of comfort, working hard to please her husband and ease his troubles after his long hours of work, and she spent her days learning the arts of being a woods witch from Meggary. Wren assumed that she would not live in that sleepy village forever, and it would be good for her to have skills if they needed them later.

Meggary told her stories as they worked to prepare herbs and poultices, stories of men and women and their lives together in the village, before the war. Wren thought that it might be a way that Meg was trying to get the memories to come back, but so far it wasn't doing much except getting Wren to think about her wifely duties and how she might not be able to fulfill them properly. After all, Sandor was always so tired at night, and she didn't know how to assert her wifely duties without his guidance.

It felt a bit strange to Wren, being a wife, but she decided that if she was going to be a wife, being Sandor's wife was the best way to do it. He was attentive to her needs, but did not demand anything of her. He cared for her, and protected her and others. He was almost like a knight, she decided. And he'd been on the Kingsguard, hadn't he? She thought he had mentioned that at some point, that she'd found a white cloak in her things, soiled but still there, and that meant he was a knight, didn't it?

She was finishing up with Meggary for the day, making the finishing touches to her final poultice, when Meggary stopped storytelling and looked up at Wren thoughtfully.

"You really don't remember anything at all?" she asked Wren slowly. "Not even glimpses of familiarity?"

"Sometimes," Wren admitted softly, "there are dreams that feel like real things, but I forget them not long after I wake. I know... I know I want to go north, but I can't think of why and Sandor tells me it doesn't make any sense, so perhaps I'm just being silly."

"Not necessarily," Meggary said, frowning down at the poultice. "He would do anything to protect you, wouldn't he?"

"It seems so," Wren said with a smile. "He has said as much and has done nothing to prove otherwise."

"Do you think he would lie to protect you?" Meggary asked. "Do you think he would lie to you to protect you?"

Wren's lips parted slightly with surprise. The thought had never occurred to her but it did make quite a bit of sense. It would be easy for him to do with her memory gone, and a good way to protect her if he had to.

When Wren went back to her cottage that evening, making sure to get back before Sandor would be wanting dinner, she had quite a lot on her mind. What if he was lying to her? What sort of lies would he tell to keep her safe? What was north that she so badly wanted to go to, that Sandor wanted to keep her away from?

It had to be something dangerous, she told herself as she started a small fire to heat some water. Sandor wouldn't lie unless she was in danger somehow.

Making dinner wasn't an arduous task, at least not in comparison with all the work she did daily with Meggary, which could sometimes be quite difficult physically, but for whatever reason she was feeling especially faint the closer she got to putting food on the table.

"Sandor will want to eat as soon as he finishes the rounds in the village," she reminded herself vocally. "I mustn't disappoint him. My learning new skills is all well and good, but if it keeps me from my wifely duties it's not doing either of us any good."

He would be home any moment, though, and she was just barely going to be finished in time.

Just then, Sandor walked through the door, and Wren smiled at him, sitting down quickly and gesturing to the food she had just finished putting on the table. He frowned slightly, looking around the room.

_He can sense something is not right._

"Did you have a good day, Little Bird?" he asked, slowly lowering himself into his chair and continuing to dart his eyes around the room, trying to decide what was putting him off. Wren fidgeted slightly in her lap so he couldn't see, trying to maintain her composure.

"Yes," she said faintly. "I learned a new poultice, one for shallower wounds."

"Was it difficult?" he asked, now having given up looking around the room and looking directly at her, obviously realizing that the change, the something that was wrong, was wrong with her.

"A bit," she admitted. "But I got it right in the end."

He frowned.

"Are you feeling well, Little Bird?"

She nodded, although the effort was exhausting and it shouldn't be.

Sandor didn't believe her, she could tell, but she couldn't understand what she was doing wrong. Surely he didn't know her so well that he could tell she was completely exhausted.

"Little Bird, you were never a very good liar," he sighed. "What's wrong?"

She froze, looking up at him with her wide blue eyes and she said, "I... I just feel so tired and I... I don't know quite why."

He nodded, looking at her.

"Did you tell Meggary?"

"No, no," she sighed. "No, it was after I got home, when I was making dinner, I just felt so tired. Why would I feel that way?"

"I know that sometimes the rush of battle can keep men from feeling tired or pained," Sandor said slowly. "Perhaps the excitement of your work kept you from feeling tired until you were finished."

It made sense, so Wren nodded. She still felt a bit ashamed that she could be so weak when her husband was so strong, but allowed him to feed her, then carry her to their bed.

"But, Sandor-"

She was blushing, trying to think of how to assert that she wanted to help him, to do her wifely duties to him, but he held a callused finger over her lips.

"You need to rest, Little Bird," he said. "I've got work to do, and I'm not saying you have to sleep yet, but you shouldn't exert yourself. We don't want you falling and hitting your pretty head again."

Wren wanted to argue, but he was gone, and she thought over his words as he went to finish eating and then do the last walk through the town that night.

If she fell and hit her head again, would she perhaps remember who she was? Or would she forget the little she had learned and be an empty shell once more? It was so tempting to try, but then she thought of the things Meggary had taught her and the look on Sandor's face when he found that she had forgotten and she knew she could not.

So for an hour that felt like a year, Wren sat in silence in the room, fighting the impulse to get out of bed and injure herself on the off-chance it might bring back her memories. She didn't want to hurt Sandor, though, not after everything he had done for her, so she lay in bed, trying not to let tears streak down her cheeks.

"Little Bird?" his voice said softly as he entered their room.

"Sandor," she said, trying not to sound as though she was choking back tears, although she was.

He climbed into the bed beside her, reaching out for her slowly, and she took his reaching hand and moved it to her cheek, which she knew he was searching for.

"You've been crying," he rasped. "Why have you been crying?"

"I'm afraid," she whispered. "I... What if I never remember anything? Will you love me less, Sandor?"

He said nothing for a long moment and Wren could feel another, fresh wave of tears coming on, and she tried to pull away from his hand, horrified that she could disappoint her husband so.

"Wren, please," he said, the word even sounding slightly bitter coming off his tongue. "I could never love you any less, no matter what you do or don't remember. You're afraid, and I don't want you to be afraid, but there is nothing I can do to make you remember, you see?" He touched her cheek again, wiping the tears away. "I swore to protect you, but there are some things a sword cannot battle. But I will do everything I can for you, never doubt that."

"Of course," Wren said, curling up against her husband's strong body and realizing how safe such a simple gesture could make her feel. "Never."


	8. Recollection

Wren awoke feeling cold and she shivered, reaching out for Sandor, but he wasn't there. She hated when he wasn't immediately at her side. She would reach and reach and find him gone, and then she would sit up, looking around the room for some sign of him.

Nothing. The sun was rising. Had she slept so late?

"Sandor?" she called softly, tentatively.

"He's gone for a patrol, Wren," said the soft voice of Meggary from the other room. The woods witch moved into view, a sad sort of smile on her face. "He told me you were not well last night and that he wanted me to watch you and let you sleep. He made breakfast, but don't worry, I've improved it since he left."

Wren couldn't help but grin a little at that, thinking of what Sandor's food must taste like, him never having to cook but for himself on a battlefield, where quality of the food is really the last of a man's concerns.

"Thank you, Meg," Wren said softly, climbing out of bed, and accepting Meggary's help with getting into her dress for the day. "I am feeling much better this morning. I think Sandor was right, it was just exhaustion."

"That's good," Meggary said, slowly. "Come on, now, food."

Wren followed the woods witch out to the food, which did look too appealing to have been made by Sandor. There was porridge that was better than she'd had in a while, and some red wine, with a small amount of bread.

"Where did you find the bread?"

"Lyra," Meggary said, sitting down across from Wren, watching her eat. "She's got her ways, and it's better than anything you'll get at the inn."

"It looks delicious, thank you," Wren sighed.

It was delicious, but there was something about the porridge, something that was good but strange all at once.

The spoon fell from Wren's hand and she felt dizzy, thoughts rushing through her brain all at once... sounds, sights, smells... memories.

Sansa, her name was Sansa. She was running through a castle, and her father was watching her and her little sister play with his gray eyes.

She was being beaten by a member of the Kingsguard, a knight, and the king, Joffrey, was watching, pleased. He'd ordered for her to be beaten for the victory of her brother on the battlefield.

Sandor was holding a knife to her throat and demanding a song from her. But she... she went with him anyway when he left because she was afraid and with Sandor she felt safe.

Sansa was being kidnapped by three boys, but Sandor cut them down, killing them all to keep her safe as he'd promised. Then the innkeeper came charging at Sansa with a pitcher and the world went black.

Sansa awoke in the cottage with Meggary kneeling over her, holding a damp cloth to her forehead.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "You fainted, fell right out of the chair."

It was then that Sansa realized that the woods witch had put something in the porridge, something to give her back her memories.

Sansa sat up, reminding herself that she was Wren, not Sansa, as she looked around the cottage. She recalled her time as Wren, of course, but now she had all of her other memories back and she couldn't help but feel a fresh rush of affection for Sandor for keeping her safe in the best way he knew how: hiding who she was from everyone, including herself.

"I remember," she whispered. "I remember everything."

"Good," Meggary said with a nod. "How do you feel?"

"A bit dizzy," Sansa admitted. "It's strange, having everything come back at once like that. But you were right, Sandor has lied to me. He's lied to me about who I am, but it is a story we'd agreed upon before my injury. He just made it easier to keep because he wanted me to be safe, and if I thought it was true it would keep me even safer."

"So if you're not Wren Clegane," Meggary whispered, "who are you?"

Was it safe to say? Was Meggary, like the boys who had kidnapped Sansa, working for the Lannisters? Was she even aligned with them? Anything said to the wrong person could mean death or being carted right back to King's Landing.

But if Meggary had been working for the Lannisters or even suspected that Sansa was who she was she would have done something already, wouldn't have been so caring.

But then, the queen had seemed caring once, too. Before she took Sansa prisoner and killed Eddard Stark after she'd promised he would get the Wall.

"I - I cannot say," Sansa whispered. "I hope you understand. I'm... Well, Sandor saved me and I'd like to stay saved if you don't mind."

"I understand," Meggary said gently. "Here, let me help you to your feet." She helped Sansa back to her chair. "What did he save you from, if I might ask? You... you don't have to answer."

"No, it's... it's fine. I was supposed to marry a - a monster. And Sandor did his best to shield me, but there was little he could do. So during the battle he came and found me and stole me away when no one was paying me any mind, the only time he could have gotten me out of there properly."

Meggary nodded, taking away the porridge and preparing a fresh bowl.

"And your injury?"

"He had to kill some boys who tried to kidnap me," Sansa whispered. "A pitcher got broken over my head in the fight. He had nothing to do with it."

"I never said he did," Meggary said kindly. "So you are not his wife, which would explain why he is worried about touching you as a husband would. He doesn't want to spoil you, when the day comes that you regain your memories and it is safe for you to be yourself again. That is sweet of him, but a very poor way to treat himself."

Sansa nodded numbly, turning back to the food and not saying another word to Meggary, wondering why Sandor had not taken advantage of her losing her memory. Was it to protect her, or because he really didn't want her?

Somehow the idea of him not wanting her bothered her more than it probably ought to. Sansa was far from experienced in men, but she knew that Sandor made her feel safe and protected, and that there was something about his strong arms that she almost craved.

Would it be wanton of her to try to find if he desired her? Was her very curiosity about his desires wanton in and of itself?

Perhaps.

But she wanted to know what it would be like to kiss his mouth, puckered into a sneer by the fires that melted his face, to know if the feel of that skin against the tender skin of her own lips would cause her pulse to quicken as his holding her did, as his holding a knife to her throat did.

Sansa cleared her throat over her wine, looking at Meggary, who was still watching her eat.

"I trust you have decided how to go forward from here, with your memories," Meggary said softly. "How to handle the knowing who you are when your husband still believes that you do not know."

"I have," Sansa admitted. "At least for now, I don't want to say anything. There are things I want to figure out before I tell him that I remember. And he's right, the fewer people who know who I am the better. The same goes for people knowing that I have my memories back. Secrets are better kept between the fewest number of people."

"I agree," the woods witch nodded. "I'm sure Sandor would as well, if he were here and knew of the situation. For all of the things about him that I find unsavory and ill-trained, he has a good heart and he wants you safe. He also understands the nature of a secret. After all, he worked for the Lannisters. If ever there was a house full to the brim with secrets, it's the Lannisters. Well, I suppose I ought to leave you for a while, then. You've got a lot to get used to, Wren. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, thank you," Sansa whispered, surprised at how easy it was to think of herself as Wren.

She paced the floor, trying to decide what she was going to do when Sandor came back that day, trying to decide how she was going to test what he felt about her without giving away what she had regained, what she knew. Sansa had never attempted to draw in the attentions of a man before, so she wasn't really sure what to do, but she tried to keep in mind some of the stories Meggary had told her while they were working and she formulated a plan.

/-/

Sandor got a sense that something was different from the moment he stepped into the cottage and saw the spread on the table for dinner. He hadn't had such a grand dinner since King's Landing, nor had S-Wren looked so lively since she very first arrived in King's Landing, before all of the terrible events that had taken the joy right out of her. She looked more beautiful than he even recalled from them, a woman grown and sparkling with the joy of a child, and thinking she was his wife and...

_No, dog. Behave_.

"Hello, Sandor," she said sweetly, gesturing for him to sit, which he did. "How is the village?"

"Safe as usual," he replied slowly. "Did you not visit the woods witch today, little bird?"

"She helped me, as you know," she sighed. "Exhaustion. Once she got some hot food and a few herbs into me I was good as new. I decided to rest today and just focus on dinner, just for a bit more rest so that I might be ready tomorrow."

Sandor nodded, glad that she was feeling better. Whatever those herbs were, they'd done the trick. She didn't look good as new, she looked better than new.

He decided not to touch the wine. He was already having a hard time curbing his drinking for his duty to the village and his duty not to spoil S-Wren, but now that she looked so pretty that he could feel his cock hardening every time she even twitched slightly, he knew that even a drop of wine would be a poor choice for that night.

"You aren't eating much, Sandor," she chirped at him. "Are you feeling quite well?"

_No, I need to be inside you, Little Bird._

"I'm fine," he growled.

She shrugged a little, but she watched him carefully, as he had watched her the night before. Couldn't she see how difficult this was for him?

_Of course not, dog. She thinks you're her husband. She's probably wondering why you haven't fucked her yet._

He hadn't thought of that. What if she was worried about the fact that they weren't acting as husband and wife in bed? How could such a thought not occur to him?

He would have to do something. But what could he do that wouldn't lead to her losing her maidenhead?

Perhaps her mouth...

_As if you could be contented with just her mouth, you sick bastard. If you take that much the next thing you know you'll be tying her to the bed and taking her a thousand different ways several times a day._

But he had to do something.

After dinner he realized how quickly he was running out of time to think about such things. When he came back from his last patrol of the day she would be there, in their bed, sweet and tender and supple and waiting just for him and-

_Don't be such a lecherous dog. She's not really yours._

But when he came back into their bedroom she was not sleeping, and he had hoped and almost expected, but sitting up against the pillows, above the covers, in naught but her smallclothes.

Sandor could feel himself harden as his eyes grazed her skin hungrily. He could look, surely, even if he wasn't allowed to touch. She was certainly a wonder to look at, even with the blonde hair that was so unnatural on her.

She knew it was unnatural, of course. He'd told her that Joffrey had wanted her for the red hair, it was part of the reason they were fleeing, and so she needed to hide it. He could imagine that the hair between her legs was still auburn.

_Stop thinking about that, dog. You're only making this harder on yourself_.

"Are you tired, husband?" she chirped in her sweet little voice. "You work so hard all day."

"I'm well enough, Little Bird," he lied. What he wanted was to say that he need her hands on him, but he could think of no excuse and it would be too dangerous to tempt himself besides. "It's past time for you to be sleeping."

"I'm not very tired yet," she said softly, beckoning him to the bed with her arms. Did she realize what she was doing to him? "I didn't work today. Come and sit with me, please. I promise I won't keep you awake long. I know you have to be up very early."

"I..."

But what was there to say? What excuse? He'd bathed that morning. He would need to sleep, and he couldn't make her go to sleep before he climbed into bed. There was no getting around it.

So he pulled his clothes off as quickly as he could down to his smallclothes and climbed under the covers swiftly, leaning to blow out the candle, but her hand rested on his chest before he could.

Sandor blinked at her tiny little hand.

What was she doing? Why was she touching him?

_She thinks she's your wife, dog. This is nothing. Think of what she might be doing if she hadn't been so innocent_.

Sandor's mind then wandered to the night he'd saved her from her kidnappers, the night she lost her memory.

She had kissed him then. She had kissed him on the mouth, willingly, even eagerly.

Maybe that last characteristic of the kiss had been in his imagination, a sort of wishful thing. He truly wanted her to have wanted such a thing, but it had probably been in the spur of the moment, and even if it hadn't been on a whim she wouldn't remember it now anyway. He couldn't take advantage of what he hoped it was, tempting as the thought might be.

S-Wren, though, she was looking up at him with those bright Tully eyes and he nearly leaned forward and kissed her sweet, plump lips then and there. He wondered if they tasted as delicious as they looked.

He was about to turn away from her, to roll onto his other side and do his best to ignore the knowledge that her warm body was beside him as always as he drifted off to sleep. But she didn't let him.

Her hands reached up to touch his face, one on the burned side and the other on the unburned skin, both caressing him with her thumbs as she moved a bit closer. Sandor's breath caught and he was almost content to tell himself that she was Wren, not Sansa, and that he could do what he wanted to her, with her, and just let himself ravage her delicious little body.

He thought about pulling away when she pressed her lips to his, not quite like she had before, but firmly, sure-of-herself, the way he had always thought a highborn lady would kiss: Like she knew what she wanted.

But while Sansa was a highborn lady, she didn't know what she wanted. She didn't even know who she was.

It was hard to remember that when his head was spinning with desire and his mouth was aching with the feel of hers. Her sweet little fingers were lacing through his hair and he found himself pulling her body against his, only vaguely aware that she could feel his hardness through their smallclothes. Her warm skin felt so good that he had half a mind to remove their smallclothes and have his way with her.

Then she moaned into his mouth, the sweetest song she'd sung for him yet, and he realized what he was doing.

He didn't want to hurt her feelings, but he saw no way to keep hold of himself like this, so he pulled away from the kiss and looked down into her wide blue eyes which were wide and confused.

Sandor very nearly pressed his lips to hers again, very nearly rolled her over and pinned her to the bed that they were so torturously sharing, but then that voice in his head spoke to him again.

_Make your apologies, dog. You're tired. You have to be up early in the morning. She's been ill. There's a dozen things to say, but pick one and get a hold of yourself._

"It is late, and you've been ill," he said simply. "You should rest."

The hurt in her eyes faded and she nodded sadly.

What he hadn't expected, when he settled down in his pillows to try to forget what had just happened, was for his Little Bird to not roll over to her own side of the bed, but to cuddle close to his chest as she was doing, throwing one arm as far across his chest as she could reach, and resting her sweet little head gently on his breast.

He thought for a flash of a moment that he should move her, tell her that he wouldn't want to wake her in the morning.

But he thought at the last moment that he should get one thing, one reward, for all he'd done for her.

So he ran his fingers gently through her hair as he fell asleep and dreamed of where the kiss could have led.


	9. Touch

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my ever-faithful reviewer, **_**JuliaAurelia**_**, the first to review the last chapter and one of several who reviews consistently. May you enjoy this chapter as much as the last!**

** -C**

Sandor awoke in the middle of the night to find Sansa clinging to him even more tightly than she had when they had fallen asleep. It was a strange thing, feeling her holding him, but he decided he liked it very much. The whores he'd been with never stayed the night, and they'd certainly never clung to him with so much fervor. They gave what he wanted and got what they wanted and left.

She was no whore, though. She was a highborn lady, and Sandor was certain that she had never even though of pressing her body so against a man. She was too pure, too sweet, too young...

And he was corrupting her.

But there was really little else he could do. Sooner or later she was bound to start wondering what was wrong with her that her husband wouldn't touch her, or what was wrong with their marriage, and he would have to start thinking of excuses not to defile her at that point, anyway.

Sansa stirred slightly in her sleep and that was when Sandor reminded himself that she was Wren now, not Sansa. That was a fine line to walk, really, because if he told himself enough times that she was Wren he might let himself forget that she was Sansa in reality, and then where would they be? All of the denying himself would be for naught and she would be spoiled.

He was going to have to patrol the village soon but he kept looking down at her peacefully sleeping face and telling himself that if he moved he might wake her. That was the last thing he wanted. What if she awoke and tried to kiss him again? What if he couldn't stop himself when he started to kiss her back?

Because he would kiss her back. He already knew that not doing so was too much to ask of himself anymore.

Sandor had to find a way to slip out and leave S-Wren undisturbed. But how?

He tried shifting slightly, but she stirred every time he did so. He tried gently lifting her off him, but holding her body made his resolve shake just a bit.

Finally, he knew he had to grit his teeth and lift her, despite the fact that his hands were feeling the smoothness of her bare skin, despite the fact that her soft hair was falling in her face as he moved her to her side of the bed. Finally, she was off him enough that Sandor was able to stand and look down at her as she continued to sleep peacefully. Almost smiling to himself, he pulled the blankets up to cover her torso and shoulders, not wanting her to shiver at all.

Winter was coming, after all, and even a Stark could catch a chill.

He walked out into the kitchen and started making a quick breakfast, half wondering if whatever the woods witch gave her hadn't caused the abrupt change in behavior, but he didn't know much about herbs. It wasn't so unlikely. Maybe, maybe he would get lucky and whatever it was would be temporary as the medicine worked its way out of her system.

It might have been foolish to have her looked at when it was just tiredness, plain and simple, but knowing how she had been the day before, how tired and almost dead on her feet... No, Sandor couldn't let S-Wren be so lifeless. He had to do something, and since there was nothing he could have done for her personally all he could do was get Meggary to take a look at her.

Making breakfast felt like a strange thing to be doing as he tried not to think about the kiss she had given him the night before. It really wasn't any use, though. He could almost taste her, and it was all he could do not to let his hands twitch as he was frying, not wanting to burn himself more. He was still fighting the urge to go back into their bed and have his way with her.

He was just downing a bit of wine when there was a light knock at the door. Sandor turned briefly to make sure it didn't wake S-Wren before going outside and seeing Lyra standing there, looking nervous.

"I hate to wake you," she said softly. "But I thought you might already be up and-"

"Slow down," Sandor said softly. "I was already awake. Now what's happened?"

"There's... there's a child, a small boy, and one of the rotted trees fell on him this morning when he snuck out to play. I only found him because I heard the tree breaking and went out to see if there was damage to any of the cottages and then I heard him calling out for help and there's no way I can get him out and I thought maybe you could-"

"Well, don't just stand there blathering, woman," Sandor growled, opening the door and grabbing his sword. "Lead on!"

Lyra led him to the other side of the village, and she admittedly continued to blather on, but Sandor didn't chide her for it because he knew it was the only way she was coping with the circumstance.

They reached the tree and while he could see that it was far too large for Lyra, Sandor thought he should have very little trouble lifting it. There was a little boy there, dark hair and blue eyes, sobbing for his mother. His arm was broken, crushed under the weight of the tree, but it looked as though that was the worst of it. Sandor carefully lifted up the tree and tossed it aside, kneeling down beside the boy while Lyra kneeled on the other side.

"Can you move?" Sandor asked as gently as he could.

The boy was either too frightened or in too much pain to move, so Sandor had to carefully scoop him up and carry him the long walk across the village to the woods witch, who was already sitting in front of her cottage, presumably waiting for S-Wren.

"What's this?" Meggary asked. "How did you do that to your arm, Leon?"

"Tree," the boy squeaked, obviously terrified of Meggary. Sandor didn't think any less of the boy for that, certainly. The woman was fearsome when she was on the job. Still, she'd done well by S-Wren, so he entrusted her with the boy's arm, helping the boy into a bed she had for patients and then leaving the cottage.

Lyra was standing outside, pacing slightly.

"The boy seemed nervous," Sandor rasped.

"He gets fevers once a year, sometimes more," Lyra explained. "He associates Meg with the things that don't taste good, the various herbs she mixes up to make him better. Truth be told she's not too fond of him either. The past few times he's taken to biting her."

Sandor snorted with amusement. That was something he'd like to see, certainly.

He didn't get to see it, of course, because Meggary didn't like distractions when she worked, but he certainly heard the sound she made and the smacking noise that he was fairly certain indicated that the boy had bitten her. It served her right for keeping him from Little Bird while she healed her. Sandor felt that this boy was taking his vengeance for him, and as the boy has been saved by his own power, he felt that was fair.

"I must go back," he told Lyra after a moment. My wife will be waking soon. If you have further need of me you know where to find me."

"Of course," Lyra said softly. "Thank you, Sandor. I... I expect the boy's mother will bring you something in thanks for what you have done for her son in the next few days. She will be very grateful."

"She needn't," Sandor said dismissively.

But he knew that she would, whoever she was. One thing he had learned about the villagers, they were very intent upon their honor, more so than any nights he'd ever met, except perhaps Lord Eddard Stark, before he died. The woman would thank him any way she could.

Sandor walked into his own cottage to find that S-Wren had risen from bed in the other room and was reaching for a dress to put on. He watched her for a moment as she stood in only her small clothes, trying to decide if she wanted to wear the dress she was holding up, or another one of the dresses Lyra had sewn for her. He held his breath as his eyes grazed the delicious curves of her body, nearly bared for him to see in full. He fought the urge to rush in and touch her as she pulled on a blue dress that matched her eyes and he turned to making food for her.

/-/

Sansa stretched and adjusted the dress carefully, admiring how it drew the eye to her growing breasts that she had seen Sandor looking at while she changed, although he probably though she hadn't noticed. If he found them interesting, perhaps she ought to make him look at them more.

She might have been discouraged when he pulled away from her kiss the night before, but she had felt his heart racing against her skin and she had seen a raging fire in his eyes when he had pulled away.

No, he wanted her. It was more a question of how to make her see that it was what she wanted, what she really wanted, just as much as he did.

And did she? After all, she really didn't know anything about being a wife, about being with a man. She knew that she so badly wanted to have him kiss her again, to have him touch her, to have him look at her as he had the night before, like he wanted nothing more than to show her what it means to belong to him.

_You are such a silly girl, Sansa. He can't see you in that way, truly. Certainly he looked at you that way, but he is a man with little company and you are a woman grown, and not poor to look at. That does not imply any sort of... love._

But as she walked into the kitchen to find him laying out breakfast for her, his hair already a bit of a mess and his arms glistening with sweat, she had a hard time reminding herself that there could be nothing real between them.

Why not?

Of course she could come up with a thousand reasons why not, and her brain certainly began down that direction as she sat down and smiled at him, picking up her spoon. But it became hard to think of anything but how much she wanted to touch his generously proportioned arms as he sat down beside her, closer than usual, and watched her eat.

"You have exerted yourself already this morning?" she said gently, looking directly at his arms. "I hope there was no great trouble."

"A boy was injured by a fallen tree," Sandor said gruffly. "He is with Meggary and she assured Lyra and me that he would be fine."

"Oh," Sansa said softly. "He was unharmed, then?"

"Not entirely," Sandor said shortly. "Shattered arm. He is young. He will recover."

Sansa made a mental note to track down the boy and see that he truly was all right. Meggary was a very skilled woods witch, but her personal skills were a bit... lacking. If there was one thing Sansa understood, it was charm. That was one of those things the septas taught their high ladies, as Sandor had so often pointed out with contempt and disdain.

"You should be going on to help her, Little Bird," he said gently, which was a tone of his that Sansa was becoming happily accustomed to as his 'wife'. "She will be happy to have your help today, I am sure. You are good with children and she apparently has no good history with the boy, says Lyra."

"Yes," she said, finishing off her food. "I think I shall go soon."

Sansa finished her food quickly, knowing that Sandor's eyes were going to her breasts as often as possible without seeming too lusty, and she couldn't help but feel excited.

She stood when her food was done and looked a sitting Sandor dead in the eye. He looked up at her as though he hadn't done a thing and opened his mouth as though to speak, but she never gave him a chance. She pressed her mouth to his, taking him by surprise so that the first thing he did was return her kiss. When he realized what he was doing he tried to pull away. But Sandor wasn't given a chance pull away because Sansa laced her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer.

To her great surprise his hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her body closer to his.

The taste of breakfast was still on his mouth but she hardly noticed as his tongue danced across hers. Was that supposed to feel so nice? Was the feel of his hands twitching down her back supposed to make her dizzy with anticipation? What did a wedding night feel like?

And she realized that she might never know. Here she was with Sandor, who seemed so keen to push her away even though he clearly did not want to, and there was no guarantee that she would ever see home again with the wars the way they were. And here she was, married to Sandor in all but the eyes of the gods, and she would never know what it would feel like unless... unless...

No, he would not want to marry her. Maybe he liked the way she looked or the way her mouth felt when they kissed, but he wouldn't want to marry such a silly little girl. And that was the problem. She was a silly little girl.

She hadn't realized that she was crying until Sandor pulled away from the kiss gently and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his rough thumbs.

"Little Bird, what's wrong?" he whispered. "What has upset you? Should I...? Have I...?"

"No," she sobbed. "No, Sandor, it's all my fault. You... I do not please you enough. I am a bad wife and I-"

He grabbed her arms firmly, almost roughly, and his pale eyes were full of urgency.

"Don't say that," he growled. "Don't you ever say that. You are the best wife any man could desire, Little Bird, and you please me more than you can possibly know. Now, Meggary is expecting you, but we can talk about this later tonight, can't we?"

"Yes," she said.

"Good," he whispered. "Now go on and we will talk later."

Sansa didn't want to leave him, but he would take more convincing than that to be closer with her, more intimate. After all, he had already proven that he took protecting her honor very seriously as a part of protecting her. Even as part of his lie to protect her he hadn't been able to bring himself to touch her as he had while in King's Landing. Maybe it was because she was more accessible to him now and there was nothing strong enough to keep him from going 'too far'.

She made her way across the village to Meggary's cottage where she found Meggary looking over a young boy with a bound-up arm.

"Good morning," Sansa said brightly to the pair of them. "Sandor explained what happened." She knelt beside the boy, who looked up at her with eyes wide and body stiff. "And what's your name?"

"L-Leon," he boy stuttered. "You're... you're pretty."

Sansa smiled softly at the compliment.

"Well, thank you very much, Leon. How does your arm feel?"

The boy looked a bit sheepish.

"Better, thank you, ma'am. I mean... m'lady."

"Just call me Wren," Sansa said, the name still feeling natural on her tongue, almost as natural as her own name had when she had been allowed to use it. Leon was blushing furiously, and he muttered his understanding of her request. "Would you like something to eat, Leon?"

"Yes, please, m-Wren."

Sansa got to work making him a quick breakfast with the food Meggary told her could be used for patients. Sansa couldn't help but notice that Meggary and Leon were eyeing each other like enemies preparing for battle, not like a woods witch and patient.

It was a nice change of pace, though, playing games with Leon as they cared for his arm and fed him throughout the day, Sansa regularly running reports to his mother. Her mind needed distractions to keep her from wondering how to go about working with Sandor's attraction to her, to explore the tension that she realized was rising up between the two of them. Leon brightened her day as well, made her forget for a little while all of the horrible things she had gone through, all that she was running from, all that she was hiding from.

But Sansa knew that she couldn't run forever, and then what would happen? How could she and Sandor be together when the world would want to keep them apart? Either something would kill them both or somehow their allies would prevail (dark and unlikely as that seemed) and she would be expected to marry some lord's son or even some lord himself for the honor of her family and the family arranged for her to become a part of. The Cleganes were little more than elevated and brutal hedge knights, certainly far too low for a high lady to be marrying.

And yet she knew she wanted to marry him.


	10. Renewal

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to reader **_**starbird1**_**, who seemed to very much enjoy the last chapter. I hope that this one's just as good!**

** -C**

Sansa had been spending a week coaxing Sandor into kisses and she realized what was holding him back from touching her like she found her body aching for him to do.

They weren't actually married.

Perhaps she should have felt guilty about allowing things to go so far without them being actually wed, but given the circumstances to her life thus far she had a hard time feeling guilty for finding happiness, small and limited though it was.

The question then came to her of what would happen to her and Sandor should the war be over and everything turn out in her favor. They would be separated, no doubt, in the very least she would not be able to carry on kissing him and sharing his bed.

And she wanted to carry on kissing him and sharing his bed.

And she wanted to marry him.

Because when she thought about what life without him would be like, married to some cold lord or some foolish lord's son, she shivered a little, already missing the warmth of Sandor's hand on her cheek.

"You seem out of sorts today, Wren," Meggary said softly. "Is something on your mind?"

Sansa nodded a bit, looking down at the poultice she was making. She would need someone to help her.

"Do you remember how I told you that I'm running?" Sansa whispered.

"Yes."

"And that Sandor and I aren't really married."

"Of course."

Sansa looked out the window thoughtfully.

"I want to marry him," she whispered. "I really do. I want to marry him. I think it would be the best thing for both of us, so that no one could ever take me from him."

Meggary smiled knowingly and nodded, taking the poultice from Sansa and sitting down across from him.

"You're very young, you know," she said kindly. "I'm not saying that this is not the best thing for you, but you really do need to consider this carefully. Your mother would help you in these decisions, but she's not here. Recall that you had a life before you began to run. If circumstances changed and you could go back to that life, would you regret having married Sandor in truth?"

"No," Sansa said honestly.

"And this is not simply because you want to be with him... physically? As a wife is with her husband?"

Sansa frowned, thinking about how his kisses set her whole body on fire and made her head a pleasant sort of muddled. No, as much she wanted to feel his kisses all over her skin and know what it would be like for him to hold her as a man held his wife, there was so much more.

"I have never felt so cared for, so protected, as with Sandor," Sansa whispered, looking out the window. "Yes, I want to be with him physically. But that is only a part of the reasons I want to spend my life with him."

Meggary smiled, sitting down across from her briskly.

"Well then," she replied, "we'd best get to work on how to break this news to him."

Sansa smiled back as Meggary began babbling on about weddings and how difficult it would be to do a proper one in such a small village without most of the men, but then she said, "You know, we need Lyra. I'm going to get her. I'll be right back."

So Sansa waited while Meggary fetched Lyra, the head-of-the-village.

It didn't take long for Lyra and Meggary to rush back in excitedly.

"All right, so we've established that you want to remarry Sandor since you don't recall your first wedding," Lyra gushed, and Sansa was immensely grateful that Meggary had kept her secret. "And we would be more than happy to do that for you! There's a septon in the city and I can send for him to come and do the ceremony for us. Of course, we'll need to do some preparations and make certain that Sandor is approving of it, but I think I can talk him into it."

Sansa could feel her heart pounding as she nodded.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I think it would be very nice to have a proper wedding again... something I can remember. I hope Sandor won't mind..."

"Wren, dear, there's something you need to know about men like Sandor," Lyra said with a smile. "It's very clear to anyone with eyes that he adores you, and anything you ask him with reasonable intention and good heart will pretty much be given to you on a silver platter."

Sansa's heart swelled happily at the thought of Sandor adoring her. She certainly hoped it was true, although she couldn't say for sure. She was still very young and naive in the ways of the world, as her time in King's Landing had proved.

"Well, I think I should talk to him," she said sweetly to Meggary and Lyra. "You know, just in case he spots a problem with it. He's very good at seeing the whole picture."

"Yes, of course," Lyra gushed. "But we ought to start planning anyway. Nothing we can't change or drop if either of you decide against it, of course, but it's best to be prepared!"

"Of course," Sansa replied, watching Lyra and Meggary as they continued to chatter away happily about plans. Meggary winked briefly at Sansa for a moment, but Lyra didn't seem to notice that anything was even remotely different from what it seemed.

And it was probably best that way.

Sansa went back to finishing the poultice she had been working on as the plans unfolded in words in the air around her, and she simply listened patiently to the various ideas. When Lyra finally left, Meggary and Sansa sat in silence once more, staring out the window sometimes, otherwise finishing their work.

She did not know what Meggary was thinking about, but Sansa's mind was running over the kiss with Sandor, remembering the heat of his body against hers, the feel of his lips on her lips, the taste of his breath...

Was this how her mother had felt when kissing her father? Was this truly love?

Sansa had to admit to herself that she had never known the first thing about love or knights or anything to do with real life at all. But when her lips had touched Sandor's, everything she thought she knew had become incredibly unclear.

No, Sansa Stark knew nothing about love, and Wren Clegane knew even less, but the one thing she was absolutely certain about was that she couldn't imagine life without Sandor lying next to her each night, couldn't imagine giving up having him across from her as she ate, the chance of maybe stealing a kiss from him and hoping he would kiss her back.

She could not live without him.

And so she was going to figure out how to make sure that she never had to, whatever he thought about her honor and duty an all those things she found she cared little about where he was concerned.

Meggary was very quiet as the hours dragged on and they worked eagerly, but Sansa was almost unnerved, eventually, by the lack of sound.

"How is the arm of the boy... Leon, was it?" Sansa finally said.

"Much improved," Meggary said softly, turning her eyes up to Sansa in an almost sly way. "Have you seduced Sandor yet?"

Sansa nearly choked on air at the blunt way Meggary addressed the delicate manner, but then, Sansa reminded herself, the young woman was not bred in the way Sansa had been. Perhaps this was the common way to discuss such things among friends.

"We have kissed," Sansa replied softly, trying to ignore the heat pooling in her cheeks, knowing that she couldn't stop it and that there was no way to hide it from Meggary.

"Is that all?" Meggary laughed, not unkindly. "That's not nearly good enough. If he has any trepidation at all, Wren, he will have none if he has bedded you. Especially if he is concerned with your honor."

That seemed very underhanded to Sansa, but on the other hand, it was a good point. If he took her maidenhead he would feel it necessary to marry her.

She didn't much like the idea of tricking him, and she wasn't even sure she could manage to seduce him, but she thought that she very much wanted to know what his skin would feel like pressed against hers, what it would be like to have him pinning her to their bed...

"I will think on it," she told Meggary diplomatically before saying good night and hurrying back to the place she had come to think of as home in order to have dinner ready before Sandor came to the table for it.

/-/

He knew he was in trouble again the second he stepped into the cottage. Dinner smelled wonderful, and there was something else in the air that he was sure was not the smell of food at all, but of S-Wren, perhaps from herbs she had been using with the woods witch, perhaps something else. Sandor carefully put down his sword by his chair and watched the girl he half-believed was his wife as she moved some potatoes to the table.

She must have gotten a new dress recently, and this one was so low as to show an ample amount of her beautifully round breasts that he was sure had yet to grow to their full size. He tried to hold back a shiver by sitting down.

"Good day, husband?" she chirped and he smiled a little to himself, loving the way that word sounded on her lips. It was strange that before he had been so uncomfortable with her referring to him thus, but now it almost seemed... right.

"Quiet, if that's what you mean," he said a bit roughly, but gently as he could manage. "I checked in on the boy who injured himself. He's doing much better."

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear it," she tittered. "I was wondering what his condition was. Thank you, Sandor."

In truth, Sandor had only checked in on the boy because he knew how important it would be to S-Wren that she knew how he was fairing. She had a tender heart like that.

"Of course."

Dinner was a torturous sort of thing, watching her as she leaned over to eat her food and not drop anything onto her pretty, teasing dress. Sandor shifted uncomfortably, constantly reminding himself that he shouldn't be looking at her pretty breasts, that it wasn't his right.

_But it is your right_, said the voice in his head. _She is your wife, after all, is she not?_

_She's not your wife, dog, and stop letting yourself believe you have a right to even breathe her air. It can only lead to dangerous presumptions on your part, or horrible misunderstandings on hers. Is that what you want, to confuse her?_

Sandor was really growing to hate his voice of reason, right though it was. After all, would it really hurt to just touch her a little, kiss her chastely now and then? They were supposed to be married after all.

Except he knew that if he gave himself an inch he would take a mile, and there would be no turning back once he gave in to even the most simple of his desires. He had to fight her charms at every turn or he would ruin her, and hate himself for it.

When they neared the end of dinner Sandor was still finding it hard to do anything but look at her breasts. Did she know how she tortured him? Had she any idea what she did to him without even trying? He wanted to growl his frustration, but he didn't want to startle her.

Almost torturously, as soon as she'd cleared the table she headed to the bedroom, not even bothering to close the door between them as she began to undo the laces of her dress. Sandor froze, watching for a moment, transfixed, as he muddled through the pleasure and draw of watching her and the opposing knowledge that he should look away through some power that he sought inside of himself.

It was weak, but as she let the dress fall down past her shoulders he did manage to turn his eyes, albeit reluctantly.

What had gotten into her?

He heard the sound of her climbing into bed and he almost breathed a sigh of relief, turning to move into their bedroom, realizing that she wasn't turning away as he began to pull off his own shirt. Sa-Wren was watching him with a boldness he'd never seen before in her as he pulled the cloth over his head. He paused for a moment, wondering if she would continue to watch as he continued to undress, and sure enough she did, boldly gazing over the lines of his flesh as he unlaced and pulled off his breeches. He tried not to swallow to noticeably as it struck him how often he'd looked at her the same way she was looking at him now.

When had his Little Bird grown up? When had she become… lustful?

_Clean out your mind, dog, she's only curious. That's hardly the same thing as lust. You only imagine her to be lustful because it would feel better to you, it would vindicate your own desires._

If he hadn't known Cersei Lannister, Sandor might have been able to calm himself with the lie that High Ladies didn't experience lust. But he knew better.

It was more than a little uncomfortable, crawling into bed beside her in just his small clothes, feeling the heat radiating off her body and fighting the urge to turn and kiss her.

He didn't have to fight very hard, though. To his utter shock she reached up a hand to touch his burnt cheek and leaned in boldly, kissing him firmly on the mouth.

_She must be doing it out of some sense of duty as my wife_, Sandor told himself. _I need to find a polite way to push her away. I need to stop her. I need to…._

But the warmth of her lips washed away his opposition.

Somehow Sandor managed to stop himself from completely falling into the kiss, to remind himself that he was still trying to fight her charms at every turn, but he did allow her lips to part against his, and parted his in turn. Before he knew what he was doing, his tongue had found its way across and between her sweet, soft, parted lips and into the sweet, warm, wet caverns of her mouth, and he became even harder wondering if she was as wet elsewhere.

Before he had a chance to follow that thought in any way or even chastise himself for thinking it, Sandor found her pulling away, and it was all he could do not to groan his disapproval, not to wrap his arms around her and pull her mouth back to his.

S-Wren had gotten far too good at this teasing.

"Husband," she said, a bit breathlessly, which made him darkly pleased. "I must ask something of you."

Despite his previous thoughts to fight her at every turn, he found himself mentally preparing to do whatever she asked for another kiss, anything at all.

"Yes?" he rasped, far too mentally gone to be ashamed of the obvious effect she had had on him.

"I want us to be married again," S-Wren whispered, stroking his hair lovingly. "I don't recall the first, and I think every woman ought to remember her wedding day, if nothing else."

It didn't seem possible that she had said wedding day but he had heard wedding night, but there it was.

His head was reeling. It seemed as though the only way to get her to kiss him again was to agree to marry her again, which would be like marrying her for the first time which would be completely against the doctrine of fighting her charms at every turn.

On the other hand, what was he to say to her? No, I won't marry you again? You're being silly?

Could they even marry again?

Sandor had never heard of such a thing, but then, his own life experiences were extremely limited to war and court life protecting a stupid, cruel little boy. He had never come across a circumstance as the one he was pretending to live in in all his life, so perhaps it wasn't unprecedented to remarry in cases such as the one Wren Clegane found herself in.

"It wouldn't be the same," Sandor said slowly, trying to buy himself time to think. "There aren't any men in the village, hardly, and-"

"I know that," S-Wren said quickly. "I understand that it would be different, but Meggary is able to perform marriages by the old gods, and I'm not sure I'd want it to be exactly the same anyway."

The old gods? Was she beginning to recall things and not realizing it, or was this simply a matter of convenience? Sandor could feel his insides squirm with foreboding, but he could see no way out without hurting her in some way.

"All right," he finally said slowly. "We'll work something out. Something small, mind. Nothing that could draw attention to the village-

"Of course," S-Wren said breathlessly, beaming up at him with such joy that he almost told himself that there couldn't be anything at all wrong with what he was allowing to occur. How could it be wrong, if she looked at him like that?

She granted him one last torturous kiss, teasing him with her sensuous lips once more before pulling away again, smiling up at him, and tittering her good night, and Sandor wished he could think of a way to get just one more kiss all over again.


	11. Truth

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to **_**kttn1331**_**, who has been reading for a while but has submitted her first review! Thanks, **_**kttn**_**, and may you continue to enjoy the story!**

** -C**

Sansa awoke on the morning of her wedding with a pounding heart.

She was going to marry Sandor Clegane.

It felt a strange sort of thing, looking back on her childhood of picturing what it would be like to marry a true knight, some gallant and handsome son of some High Lord….

But she had never felt more pleased about anything than she did about the thought of finally being with Sandor in truth.

But it wasn't truth, and that was the one thing that was thing that kept tugging at Sansa as Meggary and Lyra fixed her hair.

She remembered everything, and she was exploiting Sandor's protective lie to talk him into marrying her, in spite of his protective notions toward her.

She was lying to him, allowing him to believe that she remembered nothing, and there would be nothing true about her union.

But if she told him, he would call off the wedding, the whole thing, she was sure of it. If she told him the truth he would go back to treating her as a High Lady in private, when all she wanted was for him to kiss her.

And then Sansa began to fiddle with her skirt as she thought of another possibility. What if she told him... the whole truth? What if she told him that she wanted him to kiss her, that she wanted to be his wife, that she wanted to never be a High Lady ever again?

Would he oblige her, or would he ignore her wishes, knowing that if her mother ever came looking it would be better for him to have protected her despite what she wanted?

"How are you feeling?" Lyra asked, smiling as she pinned some flowers into Sansa's hair. "You seem a bit anxious."

"I do feel anxious," Sansa admitted, although she didn't want to say why, couldn't say why in front of Lyra. But she did want to talk with Meggary, so she sighed, trying to think of a way to get the other woman to leave without being offensive. "Lyra," she said finally, "I think I might have done the arrangements backwards." She paused. "In fact, I'm sure I did. Do you think you could go and put them right?"

Lyra was very understanding and sympathetic, hurrying away to fix the arrangements, as if seating and flowers were the most important part of the ceremony. Meggary raised her eyebrows at Sansa, clearly sensing there was another reason for sending away the well-meaning woman.

Sansa fiddled with her skirt again, not meeting the eyes of the woodswitch. How could she tell this woman the terrible battle going on inside her mind? How could she express these deep, debilitating fears? Meggary was so attracted to the idea of this marriage... What if Sansa's conscience were to hinder it?

"Don't be cross with me," Sansa said softly, "but I think I might need to talk with him."

Meggary appeared a bit amused.

"Do you?" she asked. "About what?"

"I... There are things," Sansa said slowly, trying not to blush. "There are things I must be sure of before I..."

"You love him, do you not?" Meggary pressed.

"Of course," Sansa said, fully aware of the pink pooling in her cheeks.

"And do you have any doubt that he loves you?"

Sansa looked down at her skirt again, smoothing it over her knees methodically.

Did he love her? He'd certainly never said as much, and although she'd seen him watching her and felt him react to her kisses, she knew from her brief time of observing King Robert that men watched and kissed women they didn't love. Not all marriages were like her parents' had been, and certainly few men were anything like her father had been.

"Wren," Meggary said, almost impatiently, but mostly amused. "He does love you, dear. I can tell."

"How?" Sansa asked softly. "How can you know?"

"Well, he wants you," Meggary said thoughtfully. "But it's more than that. He's very protective of you, more so than I've ever seen. You're running from something, and it's obvious that it would have been easier for him to run alone, but he ran with you. That made it harder for him, didn't it?"

Sansa saw Meggary's point very clearly. Sandor could have gotten away from King's Landing with great ease without her, probably wouldn't have even been chased after in the first place. He could have left her to his fate, but he went to her room and waited for her, putting himself at great risk. And he took her away, he protected her, even from herself...

"I need to see him," Sansa said, far more conviction in her voice this time. "We really do need to talk. Would you fetch him for me, Meg? Please?"

Meggary sighed, but she was resigned, knowing that Sansa had made up her mind.

"I will," she replied slowly. "But please don't do anything foolish."

Sansa nodded and watched Meggary leave.

She'd done more than her share of foolish things in her life. Teasing her sister had been foolish. Telling the queen about her father's plans had been foolish. Loving Joffrey had been exceptionally foolish.

But since she'd run away with Sandor, she couldn't think of anything truly foolish that she'd done. Indeed, she had grown so much in such a short time.

Meggary squeezed Sansa's hand supportively, then left her alone to stare at the wall and try to work out in her mind what she needed to say to him. A wrong word, a careless sentence, and she could shatter what was so slowly beginning to grow. Sansa began to wring her hands together nervously, frowning down at them.

They should have already had this talk, but there was nothing for that now. She sighed, smoothing out her skirt once more out of habit.

She heard his familiar, measured footsteps approaching and realized she was holding her breath, forcing herself to calm enough to breathe properly, not wanting to alarm him.

There was concern on Sandor's face as he entered the room, staying near the door. Sansa looked up at him, feeling a bit of relief flooding through her at the sight of him. He cared for her. That wouldn't change. It couldn't change. Nothing she said would ruin things.

"The woodswitch said you wanted very much to see me," he said in his usual gruff way, but not unkindly. "Are you all right?"

"I - I must confess, I feel anxious," Sansa said softly, motioning for Sandor to sit beside her, which he did hesitantly. "I... need to ask you questions, talk with you about a few things, before we do this."

His face darkened slightly, but it recovered its impassivity moments later, so quickly that Sansa thought she might have imagined it.

"What's that?"

She placed her delicate hand over his and said, "Do you love me, Sandor? I... I... I love you, but I need to know that you love me. It's so hard for me to tell."

Sansa truly believed that he did love her, but she shook anxiously to think that perhaps he wouldn't admit it, and then where would she take the conversation? If he wasn't even willing to admit one who was supposed to be his wife, what would he think of her situation, her confessions?

To her surprise, though, after a long pause he took her small hand in his and lifted it tenderly to his lips. She suppressed a shiver.

"I love you no less today than I did before your accident," he said carefully.

And Sansa's heart leapt. There was no doubt in her mind that he loved her, he was just being careful, knowing that if she got her memory back and despised him, he could say he never lied to her.

But she didn't despise him, she loved him, and how could he turn her away when they both loved each other? It was plain as day.

"I have a confession to make, Sandor," she said softly, moving her hand from his and touching the smooth side of his face. "There's something I've not been telling you, and I couldn't marry you without you knowing the truth."

He leaned forward slightly, the good side of his lips turning to a small frown. She hadn't wanted to worry him, but apparently she had, and now she had to just come out with it.

Sansa smiled brightly, looking up at him with adoring blue eyes and stroked his cheek slightly. Her fingertips burned with the sensation and she almost distracted herself, but instead she softly said, "Meggary gave me a concoction whilst I was ill. I wasn't sure how or when to tell you, but I couldn't put it off anymore, and I don't want to. I have my memory back. I remember who I am."

/-/

_I remember who I am._

The words echoed ominously in his head and he wanted to slap her and kiss her all at once. When she was ill?

She had been ill weeks ago!

Sandor shook his head, turning to pace, not daring to look at her as he tried to decipher what this meant for her, for him, for the pair of them together as….

As what?

Had she not just tried to marry him? Had she not just tried to trap him into marriage? And she knew they hadn't been married in the first place! She had lied to him!

_Ah, but you have lied to her too, dog. And to keep her safe, you told yourself. But was that really why? Does she not have a right to her own secrets as you have a right to yours?_

Those kisses, the dresses…. She truly had been taunting him, teasing him, trying to get him to look at her like the woman she was, the woman who haunted even his best dreams and certainly all of his nightmares.

This could not be happening.

"Are you trying to tell me that you've known," he said gruffly, "about everything, and you said nothing?"

Her eyes widened, surprised, and he realized that she hadn't expected him to be upset with her. He could have laughed, the whole thing was so absurd. Of course he was upset with her! How many people had she told? Did Meggary and Lyra know? The whole village? Were they all having a fucking good laugh behind his back, a laugh so loud that it would bring the Lannisters down on them all?

How could he protect her when she kept things like this from him?

"Sandor, please," she said softly, in that same choking voice which she had sung her song for him in King's Landing and he froze. For a moment, just a moment, he softened, and he thought briefly about turning to face her.

But he could not face her, because he knew what would happen if he allowed himself to look in those Tully eyes. She would bewitch him again and he wouldn't be able to think clearly and all he needed was to stop and really think about this clearly, really figure out what to do.

_You can't afford mistakes, dog, not when they cost so much that she has yet to realize._

"Surely you understand," he said a bit more gently than he'd spoken to her before, "that this is madness."

"What do you mean?" she sniffed, horror streaking her voice in a way that struck him in the very heart.

_She thinks she cares for you, dog, beyond that of a caring mistress. See to it that she learns._

"If you were to marry me," he said softly, "we would be bonded forever. There is no divorce in the eyes of the old gods, Sansa, and rarely that in the eyes of the new. You would be tied to me until death."

Perhaps the morbidity was unnecessary, and after all she was a Stark, but the girl had always had such grand notions and it was best to strip those from her quickly so she couldn't glorify their situation into something it was not. They were no Florian and Jonquil from her pretty songs.

"I know, Sandor."

No, she didn't know! Or if she knew, she didn't understand, not truly. It was infuriating, knowing that she was offering everything he wanted to him on a silver platter and he still had to turn her away.

"And your mother, when you were safe to return to her again, and your brother, do you think they would approve of such a match?" Sandor said harshly. "I'm nothing more than a man handy with a sword unless my brother dies, and even then our lands are pledged to Lannister. It would be geographically difficult to say the least for me to be married to a Stark if I ever became a bloody lord."

Politics. She couldn't argue with politics.

But best not let her say a word, try to refute him, talk him out of his viewpoint.

As if she would have to say a word if he dared turn around.

But he didn't dare, and he continued to speak on.

"You're a highborn lady, Sansa, and I will not allow you to throw away the husband you ought to have because you're caught up in girlish notions of being rescued and the excitement of everything that's happened since we've left King's Landing. I'm going to protect you, and if that includes protecting you from myself and yourself, then I'm bloody well going to fucking do it. Understood?"

He froze, waiting for some sort of sound of assent or dissent or anything at all from her, but there was just silence for a moment.

Finally, Sandor could take the silence no longer and he turned to see what was keeping her from speaking, nearly shaking with fear at the thought of why she might be holding her tongue.

Sansa looked at him with unshed tears filling her Tully blue eyes and he wanted to stab himself for making her cry, for causing such a pitiful expression on her pretty, pretty face.

"Little Bird, I…."

But she shook her head, wiped her eyes and hollowly said, "So you care nothing for me?"

"You know perfectly well that's not it," he said, eyes wide with surprise. How many times had they kissed now, and how eagerly! Surely she knew just how desperately he wanted her.

Or was it possible that he hadn't been clear enough? Had he confused her in his attempts to salvage as much of her honor as possible, denying himself all of his deepest desires for her sake?

She was, after all, very young.

"Oh, you care _about_ me, yes," she said softly, almost bitterly, "but you care not _for_ me. Perhaps what you care about is the reward you hope my family will pay you for returning me to them unsullied."

That stung so much that he nearly did hit her, but instead he grasped her wrists tightly, pulling her face close to his, insuring that she could see in his eyes, if she dared look, the pain that she was causing him with such accusations.

"Do you think that even for such a task your brother would give me anything but a quick execution?" he rasped. "Do you have any idea the things I have done for the Lannisters? Do you understand what a monster I am?"

He was scaring her, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about it. Apparently she wasn't learning from his more gentle gestures. If scaring her a bit was what it took to save her, to protect her, than he was fucking going to scare her sillier than the stupid words the septa taught her to chirp.

Her blue eyes were wide and filling even quicker with tears, but her expression was otherwise firm and strong, the face of a Stark about to pass a judgment. That was what they were good for, wasn't it? Judging others with their self-righteous duty and honor.

For one brief, searing, delicious moment, she pressed her lips to his with all the passion, boldness, determination that he had grown to expect from her kisses. During that moment his head began to spin a bit and if he'd been thinking at all he would have been calling into firm question his own determination to be apart from her.

No doubt this had been her goal.

But the kiss was over too quickly, and before she had a chance to kiss him again, he shook the cobwebs out of his head and fixed her with a firm, albeit disappointed gaze.

Light, how he wanted to touch her!

"Please," she sobbed, the tears actually shedding at this point, so saturated were her eyes. They began rolling down her cheek and he watched them just to keep from having to look into those accusing eyes. "Please, Sandor, I'm begging of you-"

But he could not listen to any more, and he knew that. He shook his head and let go of her wrists, vaguely noting with a small bit of relief that he had not bruised her pretty, pale skin.

"Please," she sobbed again, and though his heart broke, he had to turn away, had to turn from her before he did something he would regret like letting her get her way on this matter. He had to be the strong one. "Please, Sandor, if you care for me at all, please take me as your true wife. I need you, I can't stand the thought of ever being parted from you, not for anything in the world!"

And even as his heart swelled with pride and joy at hearing those words on her lips, the words fell off his own lips as he realized that he so desperately wanted to say anything but those very words. But there was no taking them back when they hung on the air so stingingly:

"I cannot marry you, Little Bird."


	12. Absolution

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to **_**starbird1**_**, one of the few reviewers of the last chapter who didn't seem eager to take a pitchfork to either myself or Sandor. I told you things would work out if you reviewed. I promised. Here's how this all shakes out.**

** -C**

Even saying the words made him feel sick, but it was what he'd had to do. Sandor couldn't look at her, couldn't stay in the same room with her. He had to leave, let her cry her tears in peace, figure out what he was going to do.

But as it seemed she was shaping up to do a lot lately, Little Bird had other ideas.

"Stop," she said in a surprisingly cold, harsh voice as he made for the door.

Sandor was so stunned that he did stop, and when she ordered him to turn and look at her he did so. After all, what did faithful dogs do but obey their mistress?

When he looked at her, though, he was surprised to find that she had wiped her tears and no longer seemed at all about to cry. Instead, she was sitting in the chair as if it were a throne, looking as regal as he'd ever seen her, with all the poise and presence of a queen.

He blinked.

"Ever since I was told I was going to King's Landing, someone else was always telling me what was best for me," she said in a soft, calm, but cutting voice. "I don't need it from you, especially when I know you want to marry me, Sandor."

He nearly shivered at the sound of his name on her tongue in such a tone as that. Oh, yes, he wanted to marry her, but -

"And so you will," she said firmly.

She was just a child, he fumed inwardly. Who was she to order him to marry her?

_She is a highborn lady, you fool, she can order you to do whatever she wants._

This he had never counted on when thinking of protecting her. He certainly couldn't bring himself to disobey an order like that, not one he so badly wanted to obey. But her family...

"Little Bird, if you just think," he began, but she cut him off.

"I want to marry you," Sansa said even more firmly. "I want to be your wife. I will be your wife. These people are here to see us wed, and they will do so. If I have to command you to do it on pain of death, I will."

Well, it was official. The Starks were all buggering mad.

But he couldn't help but think, as she said how she wanted to be his wife, of the image he'd had of carrying her over the threshold of their cottage with a marriage cloak around her shoulders. He swallowed hard, but she still sat there, watching him expectantly, absolute demand in her blue eyes.

"Well, then," he said slowly, "if that is what you command, my lady, then I suppose I can't really object."

It was surprising how quickly her face softened and she became once again the young girl he had found himself so quickly falling for in King's Landing. She was so pleased with herself he nearly grinned when she hopped out of her seat and kissed him firmly, eagerly on the mouth.

Instinctively Sandor wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him, deeper into the kiss.

How could he have ever thought he could live without this?

Of course, there would be problems, but when had his life ever been free of problems?

He was just beginning to say bugger the wedding and begin to explore the body of this girl who somehow wanted him when Sansa pulled away, kissed his burned cheek gently, and said, "All right, now, husband, let us go make our appearance, then, before the villagers, let them know we love each other."

He was so stunned at how quickly and effortlessly she was able to tug at his leash, so pleased that she was actually wanting him, that he nodded in agreement, hardly realizing that she'd just called him husband until they'd already walked out to the godswood.

He liked the word on her tongue.

They bumped into Lyra on the way, and she was grinning broadly.

"Oh, there you are!" she said excitedly. "Meg has gotten everything settled! We're just waiting on you now! Oh, isn't this just exciting! We haven't had a wedding here in ages."

Sandor barely listened to the prattling of the woman as Sansa's hand slipped into his, her fingers interlocking with his own large fingers. Lyra and Sansa exchanged words and he just felt the urge to get her to the godswood as quickly as possible, to absolutely rush to the wedding night so he could finally have what he wanted so badly.

When they reached the trees and he saw Meggary standing at the weirwood he was thrilled that as soon as they got started they could finish. He began to clench and unclench his fist and Sansa must have noticed, because she gently squeezed the hand she was holding and smiled up at him.

Sandor had been to a wedding or two. The Lannisters being who they were, he'd seen more than a few cousins and other such relatives to Joffrey being married off. They had all been in septs, though, with the new gods, not in forests surrounded by trees. And he had always thought those bloody weirwoods were creepy, faces looking at him unseeing.

In truth, Sandor was far from a religious man, but he knew that Sansa was very religious, and he also knew the importance of propriety if he was to marry her. So he would face that faced tree and he would do what needed to be done and then he would bed her the happiest man alive.

It was hard to keep a goofy and hellish smile from his warped face, but he managed somehow.

Meggary looked so smug when she turned to him. Did she know?

Suddenly it hit Sandor again how much he and his Little Bird would have to discuss on the morning. After all, she still hadn't said whether or not she'd told anyone of her true identity. Meggary seemed to know that this was their first wedding, and so she knew at least that much, knew that Sansa was not, in fact, Wren Clegane or maybe even that she wasn't Wren Smith. But beyond that?

The woods witch could be dangerous; he'd thought it from the very beginning.

But for now, she was doing him a service and he could wait until morning to deal with her properly. He would be a bit busy until then.

Sansa's pretty hand trembled slightly in his and he gave it a squeeze. His heart swelled when he looked over and saw that she was clearly trembling from excitement from head to toe. Obviously she was very innocent, but Sandor liked to believe that she was anticipating the night to come nearly as much as he was. He looked back at Meggary, whose smirk seemed to come to the same conclusion.

Sandor was honestly not paying very much attention to the ceremony, speaking when he was prompted to speak, kneeling when he was asked to kneel, standing when he was told to stand. His mind was focused on Little Bird as she chirped the words she needed to repeat, gracefully knelt, gracefully returned to her feet. Everything she did was an art.

No, he certainly didn't deserve her, but he had the distinct feeling from the face on the tree that was giving him what he thought was a rather stern look that there was no turning back now. He would at the very least thoroughly enjoy her.

Sandor was in a daze as he wrapped the marriage cloak as instructed around Sansa's shoulders, vaguely aware that Lyra was bragging to the woman who grew the town vegetables that she had made the cloak but all he could think about was how Sansa's pretty blue eyes were shining up at him and how right she looked in a cloak of his colors.

_Don't mess this up, dog_.

The whole village walked them to their little cottage where the door was open, waiting for him to carry her across the threshold. His heart beat faster as everyone crowded around the door to watch.

Not wanting to waste a second, Sandor ignored the whole crowd, scooped Sansa off her feet and into his arms. She gave a chirp of surprise, but then wrapped her sweet little arms around his neck and smiled at him anxiously. He could feel his heart pounding as he carried her across the threshold to the cottage, ignoring the sounds of the villagers as he slammed the door behind them with his foot and rushed her into the bedroom.

If they were bloody offended they could bloody well wait for tomorrow for an apology.

/-/

Sansa could hardly believe that it had actually worked, that she had merely channeled her mother, the way she had seen her mother deal with the occasional unruly serving girl, the way she had seen her mother order Jory Cassel to do this or that. And Sandor had married her.

Sansa was now Sansa Clegane, and she was married and she was being lowered onto the bed they had shared for their time in the village, that which was now about to become their marriage bed.

His eyes burned with a fire so intense she thought she would faint just from looking at it.

When his lips met hers they were so urgent, so desperate, that she immediately found herself caught up in the passion of the moment.

This was her husband. He was hers forever. They were bound by the gods.

She gasped into his mouth as his hands went to the laces of her dress, clumsily fumbling with them, frantically trying to undo them as he assaulted her mouth with his. He was drowning man gasping for air. She moved one hand to help him sort them out and then he stripped her of her dress the moment he could.

Instead of feeling exposed, standing before him in naught but her smallclothes, she was a bit pleased with the way he was looking at her, gazing at her fair skin as though she were made of precious jewels, or as if her skin were carved of the most expensive and beautiful alabaster. She barely had time to get used to this regard, however, before he descended his lips to her collarbone and began kissing his way down her body, skipping over her smallclothes and causing her to feel things she never thought possible.

She hadn't realized she was reaching for him until she felt her fingers running through his hair, softer than she'd expected, pulling his head instinctively closer to her body. He let out a light growl and ripped off her smallclothes with surprising speed and deftness.

He'd done that a time or to, but she wasn't going to think about that now.

Indeed, she didn't have much time to, for before she had a chance his mouth was on her skin again, this time engulfing her breast, and she gasped at the pleasing sensation, tangling her fingers tighter in his hair.

For several minutes he switched from breast to breast, teasing them with his hot mouth and tongue, driving her into a bit of a frenzy. She didn't have words for what she was experiencing. Everything was so new and wonderful.

He removed his mouth and she whined a bit, hearing him chuckle and opening her eyes to find him peeling off his own clothes.

"Patience, Little Bird," he whispered, running a rough finger down her smooth skin before peeling off his shirt. "We have all night."

Her breath caught, as always, when she saw the hard planes of his chest, dusted in hair that she found surprisingly interesting.

She leaned forward and kissed his lips, running her fingers through the hair on his chest, enjoying the way his muscles felt beneath her fingertips.

This was what a man truly was. He was caring and strong and absolutely intoxicating and when his lips moved to her neck she let out a mewling sound she'd never heard herself make before. Her fingertip brushed his nipple and he moaned against her skin, nibbling lightly at her neck. She gasped.

Was he... biting her? Was that... normal?

There wasn't much time to contemplate whether it was normal, because she quickly decided that it felt far too good to be worrying about normalcy. He continued to suck and bite at the tender skin of her neck and she found herself wiggling underneath the planes of his body, overcome with the numerous new and exciting sensations she was experiencing.

And then she realized, briefly, that he would leave a mark and everyone would likely know what he'd done to her neck and she opened her mouth to try to say something to stop him.

Instead, words just turned into gasps of pleasure as he moved from her neck, kissing his way down her body. He reached her navel and she was shocked by the intensity of feeling running through her, digging her nails into the skin of his shoulders. He groaned, running his tongue around her navel once more to elicit the reaction again before moving his hands to the laces of his trousers.

She threw her head back as he continued placing kisses on her skin while pulling off his remaining clothes. They were already so worked up, her body already covered in a thin coat of sweat. Her septa never told her what to do in her marriage bed, nor had her mother. Perhaps they'd thought there would be time, that she would be with them before she got married so that they could tell her what she needed to know.

It was too late now, however.

Sandor moved his head between her legs and she jumped with surprise when he began lapping at her woman's place with his tongue, like a dog.

But it was warm and wet and it felt surprisingly good. She could feel herself growing wet at his actions, shivering a little at the feel of his sucking at something she didn't know the name of as grabbed her thighs tightly, pulling her closer to his face.

"Oh, Sandor!" she gasped as he licked and sucked with more fervor, driving her out of her coherent mind with pleasure.

Her hips were bucking and she felt something welling up inside of her, some sensation she'd never experienced before and it felt like a massive rush, a wave of pleasure, and she cried out as it hit her, feeling her whole body contract at once, not realizing that she was wrapping her legs around him as he licked her more vigorously, then slowing, gently... Lapping up the remainder of her juices.

Sansa was just coming down from the delicious high of the experience she'd just had, still trembling slightly, when Sandor moved up her body, kissing her lips hungrily. She could taste what she could only hazily suppose was her own taste on his tongue and she found she rather liked it mixed with the heat and desire of his kiss.

She barely noticed as he positioned his manhood between her legs, she was so dazed. However, when he pushed into her she cried out in pain, feeling something inside her pinch rather sharply.

"It's all right, Little Bird," he said in the gentlest voice she had ever heard him use. "It's going to hurt the first time. It's all right."

When she got used to the sensation of having something so large inside of her she kissed his chin softly. He took the signal as a sign that he could move again and began to do so, slowly and measuredly. A hiss of air came from between his teeth and she looked up into his eyes to find them burning with passion and lust.

He began to pick up speed, thrusting in and out of her, and Sansa was so caught up in the overwhelming pleasure of it all that she hardly noticed that she was moving with him, not with the same vigor, but in small bursts of exhausted but impassioned motion. He began to groan her name against her collarbone and Sansa tangled her fingers up in his hair, her heart swelling at the sound of his name so desperately thrown from his lips.

From the sound of his breathing, he was reaching some sort of peak, and while she understood only the smallest amount of what that meant, she raked her nails down his back and was reward with a hungry sort of growl from Sandor.

In fact, she was just feeling her own body begin to react heavily again, to the point where she knew she was about to hit another high when she felt him change inside of her, and a moment later she felt some sort of liquid emptying from him into her and it felt...

Well, once she got used to the fact that it was happening, she decided it felt quite right. He kissed her roughly, rolling off of her but staying inside her as he hugged her body close to his.

"Perfect," he finally growled as she rested her sweaty head on his sweaty chest. "You're just buggering perfect."

Sansa heard a sound that was something like approval or agreement coming from her own tired mouth as he began to stroke her tangled hair.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he sighed. "You're mine now, Little Bird, and no one is every taking you away from me. No one."

"Never, husband," she whispered happily, kissing his chest. "I'm yours."

She thought that perhaps he was smiling from the sound of his voice as he whispered, "You sang an even prettier song than I'd imagined, Little Bird."

And in a daze of exhaustion and contentment, Sansa didn't even bother to ask what he meant.


	13. Reality

**A/N: I hope you all enjoyed the last chapter! This is dedicated to my newest reader, **_**Bluecharlie0**_**, who has followed and favorited! May you continue to enjoy this story!**

** -C**

Two pieces of news reached them a little less than a week later that nearly made Sansa faint.

First of all, Joffrey had been poisoned when marrying Margaery Tyrell and was dead. His uncle was thought to be guilty of the crime and a trial would be held.

Secondly, the Freys had murdered the entire wedding party, practically, when Sansa's uncle had gone to marry one of the many Frey women.

Robb and Catelyn Stark were all but assumed dead.

In fact, Robb was known to be dead, and Catelyn's body had not yet been found in the mess.

So it wasn't particularly surprising to Sansa that she was still sitting at the window, staring out it blankly, waiting for her husband to finish his rounds of the village so that she could curl up in his lap again and cry into his chest.

In truth, Sandor did not seem to know what to do about the whole thing. She could sense the anger radiating off him in waves. He didn't like that she'd been hurt and that there was nothing he could do about it. At the same time, however, he was exceptionally comforting and just the warmth of his body made her feel just a little safer.

Not that anyone related to the Starks seemed to be safe anymore. Both parents and a brother dead, Arya missing and maybe even dead as well...

And Bran and Ricken were only children, practically babies.

After all, a woman grown perhaps, Sansa was still, in truth, a child herself. If she were a boy she wouldn't be old enough to go to war.

Sansa started as she heard Sandor coming back inside the cottage, frowning at her as he took in where she was sitting and the redness in her eyes. With a heavy sigh he sat down on the edge of their bed and motioned for her to come and sit with him.

As she had so longed to do, she curled up on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest as she began to cry afresh.

"There now, Little Bird," he said in his rough voice, obviously not entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing in order to make her feel better. "Joffrey is dead. Surely that's cause for celebration?"

"Relief, perhaps," she managed to say, sniffing to calm her tears. "But there is too much sorrow to celebrate, my love."

He sighed again, wrapping his arms tightly around her and hugging her to him, very obviously smelling her hair, which they had not allowed to return to its original auburn, very meticulously dying it. She was surprised when she felt him gently kiss the top of her head.

"I promise you," he said firmly, "I'm going to find a way to make this all right again."

It was a large, albeit not necessarily empty sort of promise, Sansa knew. If he were anyone else, she didn't know if she would believe him anymore. The idea of her white knight saving her and putting the world straight again had abandoned her when her father was murdered.

But Sandor... When he said something like that, he meant it. When he said he would protect her he meant with his dying breath if necessary, and when he said that he was going to put things right, he meant by any means necessary.

"Now," he said in one of his more gentle voices, "why don't I make up a bath for you, all right?"

Sansa had to admit that a warm bath sounded wonderful, so she nodded and climbed off his lap, kissing his smooth, unburned cheek before he got up to go and start warming water for her bath.

Losing his warmth, even for a little bit, was a disconcerting thing when she still felt so upset and distressed, but she curled up under their furs and tried to imagine his strong arms around her once more. She'd even dozed off a bit by the time he came back for her.

"Come on, Little Bird," he said gently. "Plenty of time to sleep later."

He scooped her up easily in his arms and she wrapped her own arms around his neck again, burying her face against his collarbone, breathing in the smell of him that had come so familiar and comforting to her without her ever really realizing it.

He set her down on the floor, carefully helping her undo the laces of her dress, peeling off the fabric, helping her ease off her smallclothes, watching her step into the warm bath and sink into the water.

Sansa was more than a little bit surprised when Sandor began to wash her hair, his fingers feeling wonderful against her scalp as he carefully dunked her back into the water, then pulled her out, and massaging her scalp with surprising gentleness. Sansa had just begun to get comfortable when he told her, "Scrub up, Little Bird. I will be right back."

With a sigh, she nodded, feeling the loss of his fingers and he stepped away from her bath to do whatever he was off to do, and she began to scrub her skin as thoroughly as she could.

Sansa was just marveling over how dirty one person could become even with great efforts to remain clean when she heard the sound of rustling fabric behind her and turned, confused.

There was her husband, pulling off his trousers, his shirt already on the floor beside her dress. Her breath caught for a moment as she watched her husband remove his smallclothes and move toward her bath.

Their bath?

Sandor was going to join her in the bath.

Sansa had barely begun to wonder whether this was typical behavior for a husband and wife, to share a bath, when he climbed in across from her in the tub that just barely fit the both of them because she was so small. In a spur of the moment decision, Sansa crawled on top of his legs, curling up against his chest again, this time to preserve space more than for comfort, but he wrapped his arms around her anyway.

"I didn't expect you to come in," she admitted, and he laughed slightly, a low rumble vibrating through his chest right where she'd put her ear. She decided she liked the sound and cuddled even closer.

"Well, I need to bathe as well, Little Bird," he said, stroking her hair. "I may as well join you and save the time it takes to heat up more water."

Perhaps that was an underlying reasoning, but Sansa had a feeling that he wasn't joining her just to save water.

Since their wedding night, they had lain together frequently, Sandor teaching her intently how a wife pleases a husband, and Sansa did her best to learn quickly exactly what Sandor liked.

That's not to say that she wasn't thoroughly enjoying herself, or that she was pleasing him merely out of duty. Sansa found that she enjoyed her own pleasure so much more when he was well pleased, and that she felt pride in the fact that she could reduce him to incoherency with actually very little effort.

To say that Sandor desired her was, Sansa had found, and understatement in the extreme, and she found that after only a couple of nights after their wedding she was aching with desire for him as well, without even being touched.

Since she had heard the news of her brother and mother's deaths, Sansa had not even kissed her husband. She had been so upset that she felt it wouldn't be the proper timing. On the other hand, the person who had posed the greatest obstacle to being happy with Sandor had been her mother, who would have surely disapproved of the match. And Sansa had always hated disappointing her mother.

That's not to say that she was in any way glad her mother was dead! She was horrified, upset, and distressed to say the least. But there was, at least, a small weight off her chest with the knowledge that her marriage, at least, would not be questioned by her family.

She looked up at the marred face of her husband, wondering a little what he looked like before the fire melted half his face. It didn't really matter to her, she didn't crave him to look like a normal man, but it was unfortunate for him that he had been caused such pain, and she was naturally curious as to what he might have looked like. Chances were with a change so large in his life they would never have met, much less run away from King's Landing together and gotten married in a random village in the far south of Westeros.

/-/

Sandor knew that his young wife was distressed, and perhaps she wanted to grieve fully, but it would be dangerous for her to be allowed to do so. For one thing, she wasn't supposed to be a Stark, much less care about them. She was supposed to be a girl from liege lands of the Lannisters.

Then again, perhaps she would be mourning that chit, Joffrey, as far as the public eye was concerned.

But Sandor didn't like the idea of her even pretending to mourn that brat. Despite the fact that Little Bird was now Sandor's wife, he still very much recalled a time when she thought that Joffrey could do no wrong.

She pressed a soft kiss on his chest and he was drawn out of memories of his first encounters with Sansa, a pretty, well-mannered Little Bird looking out for some true prince that didn't exist and a bit afraid, as many were, of Sandor's face.

He put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head up so that her pretty eyes met his. So full, so blue, so sad. It wasn't fair that she had had such a hard life already.

As he so often did now after looking in her eyes, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her sweet, sweet lips, feeling her perk up almost instantly. That was comforting, and of course he decided to see if he could... cheer her up a bit.

Sandor moved stroked the side of her face as gently as possible, marveling as he always did at how incredibly soft her skin was and how exquisitely delicious her mouth tasted as he coaxed it open with his own mouth, exploring the territory he couldn't even believe he had access to as she twisted her body to be flush with his. He wrapped an arm around her body and pulled her tighter to him in response to her motion, feeling his excitement grow with every moment, desperate to feel her around him once again.

It seemed that the more he had of her the more he craved her.

Which was exactly what he feared when he was sure he couldn't touch her, and exactly what so excited him now that he knew he was allowed and even encouraged to touch her.

And touch her he did, running a hand down her neck to cup her breast.

The sound she made into his mouth turned up the heat in that bath just a bit more, he was certain, growling a little in his throat as he kissed her more thoroughly, massaging her breast, knowing how much she enjoyed when he was doing that. He found that it was one of his favorite things, touching her breasts, not just because he was so entranced by the feel of them in his hands, but because it drove her almost into a frenzy when he did it just right for just long enough. Indeed, she was already moaning into his mouth.

Sandor could already tell that he wasn't going to last very long if she kept making such sounds, and yet he didn't want her to stop them. He settled for spreading her legs over him so that she was straddling him, wondering if she knew how absolutely and deliciously wanton she looked, straddling him, arms wrapped around his neck, head now tilted back as he pressed kisses down her silken throat.

No, she was still so innocent. There was no way she could realize how much like his fantasies she looked in that moment. He nearly shivered in anticipation as her hands began to tangle in his hair.

_More, more, more._

There seemed to be no end to the pleasure in touching her, the pleasure in tasting her, the pleasure in breathing in her delicious scent or hearing the sounds of need in the moments when she forgot herself completely and gave in to the sensations of her body.

How could one girl be so... so... captivating?

Sandor had had his share of whores, perhaps far more than his share, but there was something, something about Little Bird that was so entirely different, and he knew it had nothing to do with their marriage. It was the fact that she was not only unafraid of him, but that she _desired_ him.

How? How could she want a disfigured, broken, cold-hearted man?

She had healed all but his face, though. Her tender, gentle care, her loving heart, the way she kissed him like there was nothing more in the world she wanted than to be able to kiss him. Even the way that her body felt in his arms at night was like a balm to his soul.

He realized that nothing mattered anymore except being with Sansa and keeping her safe, keeping her his. Even Sandor's brother meant nothing to him anymore.

Sandor started from his thoughts, his mouth still kissing her neck, his hand still teasing her breast, when he felt with surprise that she was touching his cock, wrapping a little hand around it so boldly that he wasn't sure what he was experiencing at first. He pulled his lips from her neck and looked into her bright blue eyes to find them no longer sad, but filled with such powerful lust that he was not at all shocked by the growl that escaped his throat.

No, what did shock him was that she positioned herself, moving down onto him slowly, tight around him, replacing the sensation of the warm water with her own warmth. Sandor could scarcely believe it at all.

He tangled his hands up in her soft hair, groaning as she began to ride him like she'd done it for years. That was one thing he was certainly pleased with - she was a natural.

"Gods, Sansa," he gasped as her sweet little fingers curled around his shoulders, bracing herself as she moved, as he moved with her, trying to get more, more, more...

Her nails were digging into his skin as they created more heat, more friction, gasping and moaning each other's names, his lips finally grasping hers in a hungry kiss as he felt her muscles contracting around him, milking his seed out of him as she through back her head, pulling away from the kiss to cry out.

What a beautiful song.

They held each other in the bath for a long time, his wet hands stroking her wet hair, her pretty head resting against his chest as it rose and fell.

"Sandor," she chirped sweetly, looking up at him with her Tully blue eyes. "Sandor, what do we do now?" she asked.

He wanted to tell her that the only thing she was going to be doing that day was lying in their bed and letting him kiss every part of her. But he knew that wasn't what she meant, and with a heavy sigh, he let her tired, delicate hand play with his larger, stronger fingers like a child might play with a parent's fingers, with fascination.

"We're safest here," he reminded her. "Especially now that it seems there's a full wolf hunt going on. It's much safer down here."

"I don't know if I can just hide," she said softly, frowning slightly as she looked at their intertwined hands. "I mean, Arya's out there somewhere. I know she has to be alive, and she needs me. And there needs to be a Stark in Winterfell, and if we keep on like this... Sandor, winter is coming."

Sandor sighed, trying not to think like a protective husband and to see it from her point of view. She wasn't the naive Little Bird anymore. She didn't believe in princes and knights, but she knew that she had a responsibility to her ancestors to find a way to save Winterfell from its many enemies.

"There is one place," he said softly. "It's not the North, but there's someone who might help you, if you ask nicely, agree to help him in return, someone I believe is not entirely loyal to the Lannisters. But there's no guarantee, Little Bird, and I don't want to lead you into a disaster-"

"Who?" she asked, sitting up and looking him straight in the eye. "Who is it you speak of?"

"I think... Perhaps Doran Martell," he said slowly. "It is possible that he might at least hide you, if nothing else, until we know what to do next."

Sansa looked at him, considering, for a moment before saying, "Do you think he will be able to hide me away? And help me win safe passage back home from so far away?"

"I believe he will be able to take you by ship if necessary," Sandor said with a frown. "But we would need to know what you can agree on first."

Sansa turned, resting her head on Sandor's chest once more.

"I would like to go to Sunspear, then. It's better than doing nothing here. It's a way home."


	14. Thom

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my new follower, **_**Corrinn**_**. Good to have you on board!**

** -C**

Sandor watched Sansa as she went over their packing for the fifth time that night. He'd told the women of the town that they were going to need to move on, that they wanted to find a way to get to a place that was more like their original home, but that they would always remember the village fondly.

And in a way, Sandor had meant every word. Little Bird had told him what to say, but he really would miss the little cottage where he and Sansa had consummated their marriage, the people who had allowed them to be together, given them shelter, given him everything.

"I think it's everything," she finally said. "Did... Was Doran Martell a friend of my father's?"

Sandor shrugged.

"I do know that Doran Martell is a reasonable man," he said slowly. "A bit of a pushover in some ways, but I suspect he's just careful about choosing his battles. And chivalrous if I remember. He would never let a helpless girl suffer if he had any way of helping her."

"Well, as I said before," she sighed, "it's better than sitting and waiting for I don't even know what."

He nodded, watching her pace their little room and wondering how it was that she had gone from a girl to a woman so quickly. Obviously she was a woman, or he wouldn't have fucked her so willingly, but she wasn't just a woman in body. She'd grown up. He shook his head a little when she was looking the other way to clear his thoughts and stood.

"We ride out in the morning, Little Bird," he said softly, pulling off his clothes and climbing into their bed, motioning for her to join him. She pulled off her dress and climbed in after him, moving to kiss him straight away and he chuckled as he stopped her, gently kissing the pout on her pretty pink lips. "Not tonight, Sansa," he sighed. "We need to save our strength for the long ride to Sunspear."

She conceded, resting her head on his chest and her pretty, delicate hand on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her, putting out their light before pulling up their furs and holding her tightly.

"Sandor?" her nervous voice said in the darkness.

"Aye?"

She shifted slightly at his side.

"What if he doesn't want to help us?"

The thought had crossed Sandor's mind dozens of times since they'd first decided to take their leave of the village and travel to Sunspear. He'd had a nightmare or too of the Martells holding his sweet Sansa as a prisoner instead of helping her as a guest, killing him and leaving her all alone in the world, because he held out no hope that her wolf bitch sister was still alive.

But he'd hoped he would never have to discuss the possibility with his wife.

"We will have to tread carefully," Sandor said slowly. "But I believe that you have it within you to inspire his sympathy in hiding us at the very least, and there is some amount of work I can offer him."

Sansa tensed.

"You are going to fight?"

"If it is required of me," Sandor told her, holding her a bit tighter. "But I will do what I can not to be parted from you for a moment, Little Bird. You know that. Now," he sighed, "sleep, Sansa. We have a long ride come morning."

It took mere moments for her breathing to change and he knew she was asleep.

He kissed her forehead lightly, breathing in her sweet scent and closing his own eyes, imagining her safe at Winterfell, on a pretty little throne that accentuated her beauty, and him standing at her side as her loyal guard.

She was the princess, he the Hound, but that didn't mean that he couldn't serve her just as aptly as a husband as he did as a sworn shield. He could almost picture men bowing down to his wife, cursing Sandor under their breath. He wanted everyone to know that he was the one fucking her at night.

And Sandor fell asleep thinking of how delicious she felt wrapped around his cock.

When the morning came his battle-tuned senses woke him early, before the first chirping of the birds, well before first light, and he slid out from under Sansa as carefully as possible not to wake her before he had to, carefully tying their things to the horses that had been moved from the stables for them and tied up in front of their cottage so that they would be able to leave when they were ready. He sighed, grateful for the kindness of the villagers.

When Sandor finished making their quick morning meal, he heard Sansa stirring in their bed, getting out of it, putting on travelling clothes she'd chosen the night before, coming out to join him for food.

"Is everything ready so soon?" she asked. "I had hoped to help."

"It's going to be a long, hard day of riding, Little Bird," he said, putting a bit of food in front of her as she rubbed her pretty eyes. "You're going to need as much energy as you can muster."

"And you?" she asked, drinking a bit of water.

"I am more used to it."

It seemed a weak qualification when she looked at him like that, but he turned away, eating his own breakfast and looking out at the clearly rested horses in front of the cottage. They were eager to go, curious about the journey they sensed they were taking.

"Sandor," Sansa said softly behind him. "I am not a child."

He sighed.

"No," he said, refusing to look at her. "No, you're not."

"Then why-?"

"I'm not treating you as a child," he said firmly. "You may be a Northern lady, Sansa, but you're not your sister, and you certainly aren't used to riding in a place this hot as hard as we will need to do."

The old Sansa might have cried at being spoken to so forthrightly.

_She's not the old Sansa anymore, Hound. She's a woman. She's a princess._

"I suppose," Sansa said calmly. "If I do well today?"

"If you surprise me, then you can help me saddle the horses in the morning," he said with a small smile turning up at the unburned corner of his mouth. "But we'll discuss that when it's time to sleep tonight."

He turned back to face her, taking a quick drink of water and putting aside the cup.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked as she stood up and began putting back her hair.

"Nearly," she said, carefully doing her hair so that it wouldn't come loose. "I don't want my hair getting in my way when riding."

He led her outside, helping her onto her horse before mounting his own.

"How long will it take to get to Sunspear?" Sansa asked as they began their ride out of the village, their ride eastward.

"If we're lucky two weeks," Sandor said honestly. "In this heat, with the amount of breaks we'll have to take to water ourselves and the horses, closer to three."

"So long?" she said, more to herself than him, but he understood. Moving forward was one thing, but when it took so long to get where they were going, but time would pass slower when they didn't know what was happening as they went.

"It will be all right, Little Bird," he assured her. "We'll reach Sunspear soon enough, I promise you. All will be well."

Sansa nodded, and when they passed the village they went into a harder ride, but not too hard. They couldn't kill the horses.

They stopped several times that day for water for themselves and the horses. There were villages dotting the sand in Dorne, and most all of them had good supply of water for the horses, and wine and water for the travelers. The refreshing thing about Dorne was that no one seemed to ask many questions, and Sansa covering her hair with cloth wasn't something unheard of. Nobody saw the red hair that was growing longer by the day.

The first night, he found an inn that seemed pleased to take them for a relatively low price, and the pair was pleased, because the first day of riding seemed the hardest.

Sandor put his sword close to them as they curled up for sleep. Just because they were wed didn't mean no one would try to harm them in the night, no matter how friendly the villagers had seemed. He hadn't forgotten the incident in which Sansa had lost her memory.

No one was taking her away from him, not even bloody Doran Martell, and if he had to kill all of Westeros to keep her, Sansa would be his until the day he died.

/-/

They had been riding hard for a week before Sansa and Sandor reached a village about a day's ride south of Yronwood, a third of the way along their journey. Sandor found an inn with an even friendlier innkeeper than the first village they'd stopped in, and Sansa settled down with him in the common room for dinner, as they said they didn't want to make meals available in the rooms.

"We did a few years back, but the problems we had with rats," the woman said with a grim smile. "I hope you understand."

Sandor had assured the woman that it was not a problem. Sansa didn't ask what the strange food was. She'd gotten over her aversion to strange foods after a weeks' travel across Dorne.

"Evening," a boy around Sansa's age said. He was sitting near them and clearly wanting company. "Travelling?"

"Aye," Sandor said, looking the boy up and down.

"Me too," the boy said. "I'm heading for Oldtown. My da' thinks I've got the makings of a Maester. I think he just wants one less mouth to feed, but I can't say as I can blame him."

Sandor grunted, and Sansa said nothing, not really sure what to say.

"Did ya hear about all the madness going on up in King's Landing?" the boy said excitedly.

"We know that King Joffrey is dead," Sansa said softly, silently cheering at the thought. Perhaps it was evil of her, but she liked to know that Joffrey was dead.

"Not just that," the boy said excitedly, in that way people told things they knew they ought to be sad about but just couldn't contain the glee at how they got to be the one to spread the news. "Apparently, his uncle, Tyrion, was tried for his death. I don't know how it turned out, but I expect he was found guilty."

"Ever met Tyrion Lannister, boy?" Sandor snorted.

"No, ser," the boy said with a confused frowned.

"Then don't count him out," Sandor said. "He's slippery as an eel, that one. From what I heard, he slipped out of certain death in the Eyrie. Guilty or no, don't expect him dead until he's dead, and even then you may want to ask for a body."

The boy looked at Sandor with wide eyes.

"Have you met him, ser?"

Sansa could have sighed with relief. Clearly the boy had been enough out of the world to know who Sandor was by sight and reputation.

"I did a tourney or two on Lannister land," Sandor said evasively. "The man can drink his weight in wine."

The boy looked like he was wanting to know more, but Sandor made it clear with his posture and the long drink he took of his own wine that he would say no more on the subject.

Finally, Sansa managed to finish the last of her own wine and she looked up at her husband, telling him with her eyes that she wanted to go to bed.

Sandor ignored the boy when the told them to sleep well, but Sansa gave him a tired wave as Sandor led her away to their room.

Tyrion Lannister, likely dead.

He had been the one who had stopped Joffrey from hurting her when Robb had won a battle. He had treated her... Not well, but he had treated her with some measure of chivalry and respect.

Perhaps he knew what it was like to be helpless.

Sansa took her dress off with habitual motion, not thinking about her actions as she did them. She heard Sandor fall onto their bed as the dress fell to the floor, blinking tears out of her eyes. She tried not to sniff, but she was unsuccessful.

"You don't know that he's dead, Little Bird."

She turned around but looked at the floor as she crawled into bed beside Sandor, who wrapped one arm around her as he positioned his sword carefully beside him.

"But you think he is," she whispered.

Sandor said nothing for a moment, then replied, "Your parents thought he hired someone to kill your little brother, you know."

Sansa bit her lip to keep from crying about Bran and Rickon all over again.

"You don't think he actually did it, do you?" Sansa whispered.

"Your brother or Joffrey?" Sandor asked, running his fingers through her hair.

"Both," she breathed.

There was a long pause as he worked out a tangle on the side of her head where the cloth she wore mussed up her hair as she rode.

"No," he said finally. "No, he never bets against his brother. I don't believe that was his knife, no matter what Littlefucker told your parents. And he may not have approved of his nephew, but I don't think he would have been stupid enough to kill him so publically, and if he had done it I doubt he would have gotten caught. As I said, he's slippery, that one."

Sansa nodded, pressing the side of her face against Sandor's comforting chest. She hadn't liked the thought of Tyrion Lannister as a killer, not after how he had treated her.

"Who do you think killed him?" she whispered, smiling as Sandor's chest hair tickled her nose when she turned her head a little.

"Oh, that's difficult to say," Sandor said thoughtfully. "Anyone but his mother and uncle, I'd say. Someone smart enough to know his mother would blame his uncle."

Sansa nodded a little, curling up against Sandor as he adjusted so that they could fall asleep more comfortably, and then she closed her eyes thinking of what it would have been like to watch Joffrey choke to death as she fell asleep.

The following morning Sansa felt Sandor kissing her awake.

"We need to eat and go, Little Bird," he whispered. "Come on, now. Up you get."

The hard riding was beginning to take its toll on her, she decided as she pulled herself out of bed, pulling on another dress and following Sandor sleepily to the common room where the innkeeper served them a quick, hot breakfast.

"Thank you for the service," Sandor said as though the words burned his tongue. He tipped the innkeeper well, though, so she didn't seem to mind his tone.

"If you're ever this way again, we'll find a bed for you," she told them happily as they headed out to the stables and readied the horses quickly for the next leg of their travels.

They'd gotten to their first stop for water when they saw a familiar figure atop an unfamiliar horse.

It was the boy from the inn.

"Hullo, ser!" the boy said excitedly, stopping his horse beside where theirs were drinking eagerly.

"I thought you were going to Oldtown, boy!" Sandor said, irritated.

"I changed my mind," the boy said happily, puffing up his chest. "I don't want to be a Maester. I don't have a head for it. But every knight needs a squire!"

Sansa could have giggled as Sandor said under his breath that he was no bloody knight.

"What's your name?" Sansa asked kindly.

"Thomlin Ydwick, m'lady!" he said happily. "But I'm called Thom."

"Well, Thom," Sandor said gruffly, "you will address me as ser and my wife as Wren. Understood?"

"Yes, ser!" Thom said happily, his cheeks red, Sansa noticed as he drew closer to them to shake Sandor's hand.

He must have been wary of the boy, if he would allow himself to be called 'ser', Sansa realized. It seemed a shame. The boy seemed nice enough.

"I don't have much need of a squire," Sandor said firmly. "We will be riding hard to Sunspear. Think you can handle riding hard?"

"How hard, ser?" Thom asked, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet anxiously.

"We're getting there in two weeks."

"Yes, ser, I can certainly keep up!"

"Then water your horse, boy," Sandor snapped. "We're leaving as soon as your horse is ready."

"Yes, ser!"

Sansa watched Thom hurry to tend to his horse and she remounted her own, petting the mane comfortingly.

"How old are you, Thom?" she asked as Thom made to mount his own horse a few minutes later.

"I turn fourteen in when the moon turns twice more," he said proudly.

A bit old to become a Maester, Sansa thought, but then he was also a bit old for a squire just beginning.

But it was nice to know that she had someone her age along for the ride, and the boy seemed nice enough. He certainly seemed happier to be travelling with them than he'd seemed about the idea of becoming a Maester.

"Ready to go, boy?" Sandor said sharply, and Thom assured him that they were ready to go. "All right then. On to Sunspear."

They took off at the pace they'd been on earlier in the day, and Thom kept up easily. He was a graceful rider, and his horse seemed at ease in the strange terrain of Dorne.

On to Sunspear.


	15. Sunspear

They had reached a village about a day's ride south of the Tor, right on the river Green Blood a week after Thom had joined them, and Sansa was very pleased for the extra company, although it meant that Sandor was less intimate with her unless he was certain they were alone, like when he got Thom his own room at inns.

They heard all sorts of news as they travelled. Tywin Lannister was dead, killed by Tyrion they said.

"Now that I'd believe," Sandor told her with a wry sort of chuckle when they learned the news.

Oberyn Martell was dead on Tyrion's behalf, it was said, and Gregor Clegane dying.

That particular news had hit Sandor strangely. Sansa knew he was glad his brother was dead, but she suspected he felt a bit bitter that he hadn't been the one to strike the blow.

"The Viper had a right to hate him," Sandor told her in their bed the night after they'd heard. "He knew that Gregor killed his sister."

Elia Martell, wife of Rhaegar Targaryen. Sansa had never learned how she had died, but she knew it was a gruesome death, and knowing that it had been the Mountain that had done it, she decided she didn't want to know.

Whatever Sansa believed about Sandor, whatever she knew about his past, it was not even a question in her mind that his brother was a much worse man, an evil man, and he deserved the death that had come to him.

That realization is when she knew that she had well and truly grown up. No longer was she a little girl, believing that death was either just and glorious as in a song or unjust and awful, like the other side of songs.

Because life wasn't a song.

No, life was cold and hard and messy, and as she settled in to eat with Sandor and Thom at the inn on the river, Sansa was glad that she was far away from the messy, hard life she'd known in King's Landing. All the pretty dresses and lemon cakes in the world could not make up for the hardship she had known there, and Sandor made even the most dismal conditions seem worth bearing.

"Ser," Thom said, swirling the wine around in his cup, "what are we going to do when we get to Sunspear?"

"I'll tell you when we get underway in the morning," Sandor growled. "And you're going to keep your gob shut about it, understood?"

Sansa wished Sandor wouldn't be so hard on Thom, but the boy didn't seem to mind at all and seemed merely pleased that he was given a way out of his situation at Oldtown. He also was learning from Sandor how to use a sword, so Sansa told herself that at the very least the boy was learning some skills that would help him find proper employment later in life, as he would have had he gone to Oldtown.

"Yes, ser!" Thom said happily, as if he'd just been told that if he ate his soup and behaved he'd get an extra hour before he had to go to bed.

Of course, they all had to get quite a lot of sleep, knowing their weeks' worth of riding ahead to make it to Sunspear.

They finished dinner and parted for bed, Thom wishing them a very good night of sleep and Sansa wishing him the same as Sandor merely grunted, leading Sansa off to bed with him.

"You treat him hard," Sansa said softly, crawling into bed after taking off her dress.

"I treat him as he ought to have been treated for years," Sandor said simply.

It was a discussion they'd had dozens of times since Thom had joined them, and one Sansa only somewhat agreed with her husband on. Thom needed to have the world taught to him, according to Sandor, much in the way he had to teach her that life wasn't a song. But Sansa knew what that teaching had felt like, and she at least thought that if Sandor had been a bit gentler it wouldn't have changed the outcome.

"Could you at least be a bit nicer?" she asked. "Is that too much?"

"Yes," Sandor grumbled, climbing into bed with her, but she knew he would consider it, as he always did. He always got just a little bit kinder when she asked him sweetly and sealed it with a kiss, so when he turned over she kissed his shoulder, smiling up at him.

"I know it isn't so bad," she teased, running her fingers up his neck teasingly, making him turn toward her. "I mean, I wouldn't ask too much of you, would I?"

He growled a little, turning to look at her as she touched her fingertips to his lips gently.

"Whatever you say, you little minx," he muttered, pressing his lips to hers eagerly.

They didn't have too much fun that night, mostly because they really did need a lot of sleep for the morning, but Sansa was always amazed at what the man could do on a schedule, even as much as what he could do when they had all the time in the world.

The following morning Sansa awoke to kisses across her breasts from Sandor's familiar and unique lips and she smiled sleepily, running her fingers lazily through his hair to let him know she was awake.

"We need to be on our way, love," Sansa whispered, secretly wishing she could just lie in the bed with him all day and enjoy his skin as she had not been properly able to do since they had begun travelling again.

Sandor grumbled, but he pulled away from her, allowing her to climb out of bed and helping her dress.

They went quickly down to eat breakfast and meet up with Thom, who was pleased to see them, as always, like a little puppy dog.

Sansa thought to herself of wolf and hound pups and then she held in a giggle, thinking of Thom as such.

"Did you sleep well, Wren, ser?"

"Aye," Sandor said, setting in on breakfast quickly so that they could be on their way more swiftly.

"Yes, did you, Thom?" Sansa asked kindly.

"Oh, well enough, I'd say," he said happily. "Ready to be underway again, that's for certain. It's strange, you know, but I think I miss the horse riding when we're stopped and miss the stopping when we're riding."

"That's called not knowing what you want in life, and you'd better get over it, boy, before life runs you over."

Sansa gave Sandor a look she knew he would take as the warning it was and there was silence until they got going a bit away from the village on the horses and Thom asked Sandor what they were going to Sunspear for. Sandor smirked a little.

"We are going to ask Doran Martell to aid the Lady Sansa Stark in regaining her home and safety under whatever terms he's willing to agree to, boy."

Thom's eyes grew so wide Sansa thought it might be uncomfortable, and she giggled.

"Sansa Stark?" he said. "You know Sansa Stark too? I heard she was dead."

"She's not dead, you silly child," Sandor sighed. "She's been riding with you for a week."

Thom's eyes grew even wider, which Sansa hadn't thought was possible.

"You're married to Sansa Stark?" he yelped, looking over at Sansa then. "You're Sansa Stark?"

Sansa nodded, laughing freely, which felt like the best sort of healing for her on this long journey.

"But the Queen is looking for you!"

"And that's why you're going to keep your mouth shut, then, isn't it?" Sandor growled. "Cersei Lannister wants my wife dead, and my wife did nothing to anyone in that family. So you are going to help my wife or I am going to kill you, understood?"

"After all you have done for me?" Thom said, bewildered. "I am honored to serve you, ser."

"Only ser in public," Sandor growled. "From now on it's Sandor and my Lady. Understood?"

"Of course, s-Sandor."

Sandor gave a sharp nod and Sansa gave Thom a sweet smile, knowing that the boy was a bit frightened, in spite of his seeming surety. He smiled back and for the first time in a long time, she almost felt like she had a little family.

"Right, so we ride on as we have been and we should be there in the week," Sandor said. "Keep up, now, Thom. Don't drop your pace."

"Of course, Sandor," Thom said, already used to the name he'd just been asked to use, perhaps not even realizing that it was the name of the Hound he was using.

And Sansa rode on, keeping up with her two protectors, glad that the truth was at least making a foothold at last in her life, no longer being the last thing anyone would ever know about her except for Sandor.

She would get her life back, eventually.

/-/

Sandor gripped the reigns of Stranger just a bit tighter as they approached the gates of Sunspear, looking back quickly to ensure that Sansa's hair and face were well-covered and Thom was keeping up with confidence.

All was well thus far.

At the gates there was no trouble. They were merely travelers, a man with his young wife and her brother seeking work. Their village had been destroyed by the Mountain.

That was the sort of story a Dornishman could sympathize with, and they were permitted inside to look for work as long as they needed.

They found an inn the same way they'd usually done, not in too rough a part of town but not a particularly ritzy one, either. He wanted to keep Sansa far away from the brothels, but also far enough away from the castle that if there was some sort of trouble Thom could get her out of there without too much suspicion and Sandor could meet them outside the city.

Once the three of them were paid up and settled in, Sandor kissed Sansa gently and told her that he would be back as soon as he was able.

Sandor had not been to Sunspear in many years, and certainly did not know the city well, but with a bit of coin he could get directions from nearly anyone to the person he was looking for, and he found her window after bribing his way to the castle grounds with very little difficultly.

Taking a stone, Sandor tossed it at the window, waiting for the attention of Arianne Martell.

It occured to him after a moment of waiting that she might not actually be in her room, but he was rewarded a moment later with her face peering out at him, frowning and eyes narrowed.

"I trust you wanted my attention, as you stand there waiting for it, so be quick and explain yourself or you'll regret your joke."

He smiled.

"Doran Martell's daughter has her uncle's tongue, I see," Sandor said, uncovering his face. "The Hound is at your door, Princess, with a proposition and a secret and even a sword to offer to your family, under the proper terms. I seek only your ear and that of your father."

She smirked at him.

With any luck she had more of Oberyn than Doran in her, and that was all he needed to get in the door and convince her father of the positives of supporting Sansa.

"May I say, welcome to Dorne, Hound," she said, probably caressing her knife under the level of the windowsill. "Though might I ask you to use the door for your next encounter with our house?"

"With pleasure, Princess," Sandor said softly, following her instructions to the nearest doorway where she would meet him and lead him to a place where he could have an audience with both her and her ailing father.

He followed her instructions and was soon sitting down with both Doran and Arianne, as promised.

"Sandor Clegane," Doran said softly, almost weakly, but Sandor knew that behind the physical weakness of the man, Prince Doran Martell was still as sharp of mind and grand as he had ever been, and that was considerably. "You were a Lannister lapdog gone rabid, now you're coming to the land with the greatest grudge against your family and asking for favors and an audience. Rather bold, don't you think? You know Princess Myrcella is here, to marry my youngest one day?"

"I'd heard rumors," Sandor said, nodding. "I'd rather she didn't see me, as you might imagine."

"I certainly can," Doran said with a bit of a smile in his voice. "First of all, your brother-"

"Is better off dead," Sandor said honestly, not bothering to cover the vitriol in his voice. "I only wish I could have been the one to kill him, but I am glad of the time I had doing... other things. I owe your brother a debt."

"My brother is dead," Doran said sadly. "I will leave that to you to decide what that means for our negotiations."

"It means my brother's keepers have another crime to add to their pile to pay for," Sandor growled.

"What is your proposition?" Doran asked, clearly appreciating Sandor's heart-felt response.

"I hate the Lannisters," Sandor said coldly. "I know you do not support them, or their incestuous children on the throne. I don't know who you want on the Iron Seat, and I really don't care. Nor does my... wife."

"Wife?" Arianne asked, eyebrows raised. "When did this happen?"

"Recently," Sandor said slowly. "A pretty young girl left King's Landing with me, and against my better judgment she talked me into marrying her under a weirwood. And that sweet girl wants nothing more than to have her home back, to be safe and at home, and I will do whatever I have to so that she can have that, do you understand me?"

Doran Martell sat up slightly, something he probably had not done on his own power in a long time, and his eyes were wild with wonder as he said, "And is Sansa Stark in good health, Sandor Clegane, or are there... concerns?"

"She is not with child, if that is what you suggest," Sandor said, one half of his mouth curling into a smirk. "But she is my wife, Martell, and you're not taking her from me."

"I would not dream of it," Doran said in a voice that Sandor had to take as honest. "I recognize marriages even with the Old Gods as something sacred, unlike other Houses."

"As do I," Sandor said softly. "I do not know your plans, of course. You've done a very good job of hiding yourself away here, keeping out of major affairs, keeping your secrets. But I will do anything for you if it helps my wife regain her holdings and be safe again."

There was a long pause as Doran sized up Sandor, considering the offer.

"Well, you certainly have nowhere else to go and nothing to lose," Doran said with a small, good-natured smile. "I'll share with you what you need to know, although that goes for your wife as well. You will both be safer if you only know what you need to when you need to. I will hide you and keep you, and you will support me and my ends when the time is right."

"And Winterfell?"

"I cannot say for sure," Doran said slowly, "but of Sansa has no objections, the Starks should have the place they had during Robert's era, no more, no less."

"That is all we ask, " Sandor said honestly, feeling more than a little bit relieved.

"Well, in that case," Doran said with a smile, "You ought to go and pick up your wife. And...?"

"A squire, young and green, but he knows the need for secrecy and seems to have a great capacity for learning," Sandor said firmly. "I believe he could be a great swordsman."

"That will occupy you when your wife does not, then," Doran said with a weak smile. "Fetch them and return. Arianne will see that quarters are prepared for you, out of the way so that we can arrange for you not to be seen by Myrcella or her... keeper."

Sandor bowed slightly, thanking both Doran and Arianne, leaving them to make the arrangement and fetching Sansa and Thom as quickly as possible, incredibly pleased that he'd thought to come to Doran Martell. Many a Lord or Lady would have taken them in for their own purposes, but he did not think they could find someone whose desires better matched their own than Doran Martell.

The hard riding had been worth it all.

Sansa was shaking a bit, and nervous, when they arrived back at the castle, but Princess Arianne was there to greet the three of them with a sly smile.

"Welcome back, Hound," she said softly. "Your rooms are ready. You must be tired. In the morning, you and your wife will have your breakfast with my father in private. You will discuss some... necessities of your terms."

"Of course," Sandor said, filing away that Doran Martell did not share his secrets with even his precious daughter.

They must be some secrets, indeed.

Sansa seemed more than relieved as they dressed for bed that night, noting that Arianne Martell had arranged for clothing in her size as soon as she'd caught sight of her.

"Oh, look, she even had a blue dress brought up," Sansa said, tears in her eyes.

Sandor knew his wife did not need the pretty dresses and fancy foods, but she was pleased to have them.

It was a reminder that she was a lady, that he did not deserve her, but at the same time she was back in her element, back to everything he loved about her, and he knew it was worth not deserving her to see her smile at him like she did when she turned around to look at him again.

**A/N: This chapter is now dedicated to **_**Jezebel74**_**, who is a recent follower to this story. Welcome to the party, Jezebel, hope you enjoy!**

** -C**


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